Emma Matthews
by Anton M
Summary: Complete. Isabella has been cooperating with the DEA under her father's nose. Video footage reveals her involvement, her brother murders their father, and she agrees to be a key witness in federal criminal cases against an ex-judge, a congressman, and an array of criminals, including her brother. Olderward, AH
1. Room 31

**Summary:** Isabella has been cooperating with the DEA under her father's nose. A video footage reveals her involvement, her brother murders their father, and she agrees to be a key witness in federal criminal cases against an ex-judge, a congressman, and an array of criminals, including her brother. AH

...

 **Emma Matthews**  
by Anton M.

 **Chapter 1: Room 31**

...

"Charles W. Swan, a man better known as El Camaleón, the Lord of organized crime in Baltimore and one of the most sought-after fugitives of the last decade, was murdered in an apartment on Bloomingdale Road last night. After the controversial leaked footage last week, the DEA Chief of Operations, Everett B. Whitman, was forced to admit to one of the most complex undercover operations since the agency's establishment in 1973, but the agency insists that not only do they not have anything to gain from the death of the infamous El Camaleón, they had nine undercover agents to lose.

Indeed, so far, all evidence suggests that the drug lord died through the hands of his own son Jacob, whose fingerprints have been confirmed on the murder weapon. His sister Isabella showed signs of struggle as a result of attempted strangulation and made the 911 call after having successfully knocked her brother unconscious. Because of the notorious nature of the Swan family, rumors run rampant around the incident, which is why we have asked Police Commissioner of the Baltimore Police Department, Nicolas Hanson Weaver, to join us tonight."

...

Fourteen people showed up for Statistical Methods and Data Analysis.

Edward found himself a spot three rows and two seats behind the brunette girl he'd memorized from a photograph. Despite her girlish features and lack of height, Isabella was twenty-two years of age. Animated and straight-forward, she knotted her hair with a sparkly, childish-looking pen, laughing with her friends. She took off her shoe, and raised her left leg to wrap her arms around it when the lecture started. A colorful fake-tattoo covered the back of her neck.

It was a string of hearts.

She scribbled furiously through the lecture, and when her hand shot up and she said something about logarithmic transforming to normality that removed positive skew, and suggested a small adjustment to zeroes, few followed her train of thought. The professor thanked her, answered, and Isabella went back to writing with that incredible focus.

When a man in a grey sweatshirt quietly stood in the corner of the room, she paled and held still. The man picked up the ball-point pen he'd lost and sat back down, showing his face. Isabella relaxed.

So did Edward.

He studied her, quietly, introducing himself to people only when asked. Anthony Warren, he told them, a transfer from Drexel University in Philly. He kept a low profile, offering only enough of himself to gain trust but not nearly enough to be interesting. For three days, he shared every single lecture with Isabella and made sure she got home alive. He kept his distance.

She hadn't slept, he saw. She didn't leave or arrive anywhere without company, and not once did she come up to Edward to introduce herself.

She didn't trust him. She was smart.

On Thursday, as she walked to her swimming practice with a friend, she was being followed, and she knew it. He knew that she knew because she kept changing routes and stepping into stores. Edward caught the guy two blocks away from campus and recognized him as Ralph Trent, her brother's associate. They fought. He got a couple of bruises and nasty gash on his forearm. Trent got a bullet in his leg.

Edward waited for the police and the ambulance, showed his badge and filled in paperwork. A paramedic stitched up his arm.

Isabella's swimming practice had lasted for half an hour when Edward sat on a bench by the window. She was in the middle of swimming laps, freestyle, and he'd counted five of them when she stopped, listened to the coach, and locked eyes with Edward.

It was the first time for her to acknowledge his presence.

He stared back, waiting, but Isabella turned and dove underwater. Her strokes were clean and fast, and he understood why the competition on Saturday was so important to her. She must've had a fair shot at winning.

Another half an hour had passed when Isabella got out of the pool and shared a few quiet words with her coach. She took a towel, walked over to Edward and put the towel next to him before sitting down. Even with a swimming cap and a suit designed to make her look flat, he couldn't deny how attractive she was. But, up close, he could now see a purplish bruise around her neck that she must've previously covered with make-up.

He'd protected witnesses before, but rarely had the danger felt so real.

"I don't trust you," she said, resting elbows on her knees. "But you'd be stupid to kill me in front of so many witnesses."

"Kill you?"

"Oh, please." Quietly but quickly, she pulled out his gun from underneath his jacket and his backup from his left leg. He let her. She released the magazine, took a round from the chamber and did the same with his second gun. She put the edge of her towel over both unloaded weapons as he looked over the pool. Nobody was paying attention.

".40 caliber Glock and a 340 .357 Magnum," she said, leaning against the window, arms crossed. "The question is, Edward, are you working for my brother or against him?"

It was one thing to know the girl he was protecting was the daughter of the man who had called the shots in organized crime, it was another entirely to witness her not only know where he held his guns but to see her unload them. He didn't ask how she knew his name. Without a word, he dropped his U.S. Marshal badge in her palm. She barely gave it a glance before returning the badge to him.

"You're forgetting the man I grew up with. You can't imagine the blackmail and bribery I've seen. My question stands."

"I'm with Carlisle." He pulled up his sleeve. "Trent is in town. He followed you here. I shot him."

She didn't react to his wounds, but her gaze sharpened at the mention of Carlisle's name.

"Trent? Did you kill him?"

"No. He's a valuable witness."

"Pity."

With a standoffish quality to her actions, she reloaded his guns before returning them to their original places. She stood up and took her towel, but paused. He'd observed her enough to know she wasn't going to tell him she trusted him. She either did or she didn't.

"How much time until we leave?"

"The moment your practice is over."

She pressed her lips together, grimacing, but only gave him a nod before returning to her practice. She trained with fierce energy, and he watched, observing the bystanders, making calls. He waited in the hallway as she changed. She emerged in jeans and a brown leather jacket, a duffel bag thrown over her shoulder and redness in her eyes she didn't comment on. She'd concealed the bruise on her neck. He watched as she gripped the strap of her bag with both hands, eyes lingering on the closed cafeteria and empty hallways. They sat in an old Toyota before she took one last glance at the campus. They drove off.

"You could've introduced yourself on Monday," she said, looking out of the window.

"Carlisle and I wanted you to have until Saturday."

"But I can't."

"Not anymore."

She nodded, watching the lights pass them by. "So this is really it, huh? No packing, no goodbyes, just sit in a car and disappear until the prosecution?"

"It's better this way."

She turned on the heat. "Where are we staying?"

"At the Super 8 Laurel on Washington Boulevard."

He stopped to grab a bite to eat. She observed him as he drove, but he didn't force her to speak. He'd done this before, with families, but Witness Protection often helped people with a criminal past, people he didn't necessarily like. He'd never helped a girl because she was born into a family that consisted of criminals and murderers.

"Thank you," she said, wrapping arms around her legs. He glanced at her.

"It's my job."

She ate in silence the rest of the way. They checked in as Mr. and Mrs. Payne and paid in cash.

Isabella appeared to be unaffected by their sleeping arrangement as she dropped her bag on the double bed and took the toothbrush he'd bought. In the same calm manner, she accepted the changes needed to her appearance as he cut off her hair and gave her bangs. The rest barely touched her shoulders. Once they'd dyed her hair a sandy blonde, she sat on the bed with a towel around her bruised neck, staring at her new passport.

Emma Matthews, 25, from Lincoln, Nebraska.

Her hair had been photoshopped to look like it did now, but lighter. It seemed to have been done by a professional hand.

"We're married." Edward sat on the edge of the bed, giving her his passport. Anthony Matthews, 30, from Omaha, Nebraska.

"Straight to the point, huh." Her mouth quirked in a smile. "I'm glad I got to skip the wedding. I hate weddings."

He took off his shoes.

"Why married, though? Why not a sibling thing or a friend or whatever?"

"It's easier to get information should one of us be wounded or killed, easier to deal with legalities, easier to explain travelling together. It's just easier."

He opened his bag and put a binder in front of her. "This has all the information about your past. I've memorized everything, so you can have it until tomorrow night. Learn as much as you can about Nebraska. If you have any questions, ask."

The bedside lamp was on when he returned from shower. She'd drawn her knees close to her chest, and the binder was open in her lap but she was staring at a picture on the opposite wall. Watching her, he realized that no matter how drastically they changed her hair, her features were too striking. She had wide, strong eyebrows, a small mouth, and an athletic build. They could've done anything, and it wouldn't have been enough to fool anyone.

He realized he was in a pair of sweatpants when she caught his eye, but when she looked away, blush covering her cheeks, it struck him just how very young she was. It was easy to forget with the life she'd lived, with how smart she was and how calm she'd stayed through the evening. She'd taken the situation in stride.

"What happens tomorrow?" she asked, eyeing the binder until he'd pulled a T-shirt over his head. He sat on the bed beside her.

"We'll catch an early flight to Milwaukee and stay with a friend of mine until further notice."

She looked up, and he saw that her eyes were red-rimmed, but before he could comment, she looked in her lap.

"I don't want to talk about it."

Nodding, he offered her one of his T-shirts. She shut off the lamp and got changed as he separated the blanket from the bedspread and gave her the blanket. He left his gun on the bedside table.

"I don't think I'll sleep, but if I do and I get restless, a kick or a nudge will easily wake me. Whatever you do, don't hover over me when you try to wake me."

Her voice was soft but left no room for questions.

"All right."

The silence that followed was only interrupted by the distant buzz of cars and the occasional murmur of human voices. He lay on his back, thinking over the preparations they'd made to make everything run as smoothly as possible. He knew she was awake from her breathing, but he didn't know how to soothe her. He'd seen criminals, decades older than her, freaking out and reconsidering their decision, needing constant assurance of the necessity of their decision to the point where they secretly contacted someone they knew and put their lives in danger or got themselves killed. Isabella, however, had handed over her mobile phone and watched with a sort of detached fascination as he took it apart and discarded it at the nearest gas station. She hadn't said a word.

He didn't know how to reassure a girl who hadn't questioned a single step of their plan. He'd been waiting for her to put up a fight, to ask to talk to Carlisle or refuse to cut off her hair. She'd done none of it.

"I'm sorry you didn't get to say good bye to your friends," Edward said.

She turned on her side. "I did."

"What?"

"I left messages on their computers," she replied. "I know you know. You've been informed not to leave me alone with any technology in case I'm not as trustworthy as you've thought and use my hacking abilities to... make Carlisle's computer incapable of exiting a porn site."

He paused, blinking.

"I'm kidding, Edward."

"I think it's easiest if you call me Anthony. Makes it more natural in social situations."

"Okay," she replied, turning on her stomach but facing him. "Okay, Anthony. Tell me something about yourself, and I don't mean from that binder."

"It's better if you don't know."

"Better for who?" She sighed, wiping hair from her face. "Look, I'm pretty smart. Carlisle is one of the two people I trust with my life, and he handpicked you, which means you're probably pretty phenomenal. But a name can only do so much. I know that you know what happened to me. I know that you've seen that video footage. Now, it's your turn. Give me a reason to trust you."

He paused, turning his face to see her. He could've given her a thousand believable lies, but with this girl, it felt wrong to lie. He wanted her to trust him.

"What do you want to know?"

"Simple things. The truth. Your age, where you went to school, how many fake wives you've had, you know, normal stuff. And don't tell me it's easier for me not to know."

He couldn't make out much, but he could see her smile.

"I'm thirty three."

She made a face. "That's old."

"Thanks," he replied. "I graduated from Temple University in Philadelphia with a BA in Criminal Justice. I have a younger half-sister and a mother, both in Scranton. No ex-wives to worry about, fake or otherwise."

She hummed, and he thought she was going to tease him about being a commitment-phobe, but she didn't.

"Isn't it riskier to pretend to be my whatever than it would be to hire someone random? You're clearly in the system."

"The internet has been taken care of. Any result for any search engine will no longer associate my name with my face. All results will be for my name-sakes. And you're far too valuable to risk letting you spend the next months with just anyone, which is why I will be with you at all times until you testify."

She didn't say anything for a long while, but when she did, her voice, for the first time, sounded vulnerable to him.

"And after that?"

"It's too early to tell."

She fell silent.

He didn't think of himself as an irrational man, but looking at her eyes gleaming in the darkness, desperate to trust him, he was overwhelmed by tenderness and the need to keep her safe.

"Do you know why my brother wants me dead?" she whispered.

"You agreed to witness against him."

"No. Not really. I don't think it bothers him that much. My father, he—left everything to me, including his status as a drug lord. My brother is smart, but I'm smarter, and my father's employees would've been loyal to me if that had been what I'd chosen. It kills him that I'm an heiress to my father's shady throne."

"And what do you think happens now?"

"His followers will skin me alive once they find out, if they haven't already."

"I'll never let that happen."

He could see her teeth reflecting as she smiled, but said nothing. Edward checked the alarm on his phone before staring at the ceiling, clearing his head, knowing that Braswell and Whitlock were downstairs, keeping an eye out for them. They were safe to rest until the morning.

"Edward?"

Instead of correcting her, he hummed, and Isabella rested her head on her palm, facing him. A lamp outside illuminated her face and he felt like he'd never seen one as exhausted as hers. The shadows under her eyes made her appear older.

"What is it?" he asked.

"I… if I ask you something, will you promise not to laugh? Even if your answer is no."

"Of course."

"After I… after my brother attempted to choke me, I've had trouble sleeping. I don't want to elaborate. But my roommate had a cousin over for two nights last weekend. She's four years old, she liked sleeping beside me, and holding my hand helped her sleep, but… it kind of helped me sleep, too, and—"

Edward stretched out his arm between them, palm up, and she put her hand in his. It was warm. He squeezed it, and she let out a breath.

"Thank you," she whispered, squeezing it back, closing her eyes. "Thank you."

"Of course," he answered, turning to be more comfortable while holding her hand. It felt intimate. It shouldn't have, but he couldn't help the feeling.

"We have an alarm set for 4:30. Try to get some sleep. You're safe."


	2. Boeing 737

...

 **Emma Matthews  
** by Anton M.

 **Chapter 2: Boeing 737**

…

At 4:22 AM, four taps, three taps and a single, separate tap echoed in the room. Despite recognizing the pattern, Edward slid out of bed and held his loaded gun pointed at the door. He lowered the weapon once he could make out Whitlock's bearded face. Isabella stirred when she fisted her empty hand. She sat up, blinking at the intruder. He was no less than fifty years old, wearing a flat cap, sports jacket and light pants. He looked deceptively regular.

"Bad news," Whitlock said, putting a hard-sided gun case on the bed before handing a beige envelope to Edward. "Jacob escaped."

Edward stared. Not saying a word, Isabella started throwing belongings in her duffel bag and got changed in front of them in the relative darkness of the room. Both marshals ignored her.

"I thought he was in the NBCI." Edward pulled on a pair of jeans, throwing his stuff in his own bag. "How do you escape a maximum security prison?"

Whitlock opened his mouth to reply, but Isabella beat him to it.

"How do you think El Chapo escaped from Altiplano in July? Hugh F. Danes in 2009? Blackmail, bribery, and a shitload of money."

Edward held her gaze. Knowing of her history didn't help him grasp how a girl like her had been handed a life like hers, how a situation like this must've been unsurprising rather than a cause for panic.

Her lack of reaction failed to surprise him.

"Does this change our plan?"

"No," Whitlock replied. "Not the immediate plan. We had a two-hour conference call with Carlisle in D.C., Braswell and Varney—"

"Don't tell me he escaped two hours ago and you only bothered to tell me now."

Whitlock tilted his head on the side, his voice lower, calmer. "If anyone can rival Isabella's lack of sleep, it's you, Masen. We need you on top of your game and I refuse to apologize for giving you these two hours."

Two hours in the hands of a prison escapee could've been exactly the amount of time it took for Jacob to drive to the Super 8 Laurel they were staying in, given that he knew of their whereabouts, which he couldn't.

"Fine. Brief me in."

Isabella brushed her teeth, leaning against the bathroom doorway as Edward and Whitlock went over scheduled hearings, backup identities and emergency plans in case their cover was blown, dates and cities in combination with abbreviations that made her look at Edward with question in her eyes. Having rinsed her teeth, she sat on the edge of the bed and started to conceal the bruises on her neck.

Whitlock looked at Edward. "She's wearing the same jacket she wore in the video footage."

"We haven't had time to shop."

"My mother—"

Whitlock was already taking off his own sports jacket, offering it to Isabella. She gave him her jacket and put on his, rolling up the sleeves and returning to her bruises as if nothing had happened.

Arms crossed, Whitlock eyed her.

"Are you sure she understands the threat her brother's escape poses to her well-being?"

Isabella stood up. "Excuse me?"

"You don't seem particularly surprised by the current turn of events."

"Whichever trust issues you have with me, I suggest you bring them to Carlisle."

Edward stood between them, placing a hand on Whitlock's chest. "Knock it off, Whitlock."

"How do you know? You've seen what she can do. She's a brilliant hacker, she could be playing us. Just look at how she's reacting to the news of her brother."

"Carlisle trusts her."

"Therefore, you do?"

"Yes." Edward lowered his hand but didn't step back. "She's the first witness in seven years I've protected who hasn't broken the law. Don't be paranoid."

"Why isn't she freaking out?"

" _She_ is in the room," she said. " _She_ has seen blackmail and torture and murder and Mexican Drug War from the frontlines every summer since she was three years old. _She_ has had to fake identities so that hitmen from other turfs wouldn't kidnap her and ask for ransom money. _She_ —"

"He trusts you," Edward said, voice low and serious. "He will not let his personal troubles cloud his judgement because he's the best in cyber security. His trust in you is unwavering."

Whitlock took off his cap and ran finger through his greying hair.

"This is unprofessional, Whitlock. I will address your concerns to Carlisle and speak to you tomorrow."

The men stared at each other until Whitlock put his cap on, handed over his car keys, and left the room with her leather jacket under his arm. Edward brushed his teeth as Isabella finished packing, and minutes later, they stepped into the dark, silent night. They left the hotel in a grey Honda. It was 4:45 AM.

"He doesn't trust me," she said. "Do you?"

"Carlisle trusts you."

"Which doesn't answer my question."

"I do. The decision you've made should leave no doubts. I don't have any."

"Thank you."

He watched her, briefly, hesitating and wondering how much to tell her about Whitlock's personal life. He hadn't experienced an argument over trust in front of the witness before, and it felt wrong, somehow, that he hadn't been able to foresee this issue.

"Expressing doubts of your loyalty in front of you is unprofessional and I apologize. I will let Carlisle know of his indiscretion."

"Do you punish for something like that?"

"A period of suspension could be imposed, but we need him. It is more likely that they will go over all evidence concerning your loyalty and come to the obvious conclusion."

"I'm used to distrust," she replied. "Don't feel obliged act on my account."

The lights passed them by as she opened the window and listened to the distant, ceaseless sound of cars. There weren't many. She read an occasional sentence or two when they drove by a lamppost. He couldn't imagine how surreal this must've felt for her. If Trent hadn't gotten so close, she would've been ready to wake up at ten AM to drive to New York City with her coach and one teammate to swim at the East Coast Women's Swimming Championship.

"Think of it as method acting. The moment we're no longer alone, I am Anthony, and you are my wife, Emma."

She noticed that his nose had a crookedness to it that could've derived from a broken nose. His smile was professional but good-natured.

"Tell me about yourself."

His voice was deliberately expressive.

"I'm 25. I was born on August 26, 1990 in Lincoln, Nebraska, to my father Roger Harrelson, a technician for the Burlington Northern Railroad, and my mother Judy Kilmer-Harrelson, a schoolteacher at West Lincoln Elementary. I went to the same elementary school where my mother taught before we moved and I attended both Irving and Culler Middle Schools. I graduated from Lincoln Southwest High School in 2009 and attended Southeast Community College where I learned Computer Aided Design Drafting."

"Where do you work?"

"I'm a freelance web designer."

"Do you have any brothers or sisters?"

"No. I'm an only child."

"How did you meet your husband?"

She shut her binder, arching an eyebrow and stifling a smile. "Seriously?"

Unfazed, he repeated, "How did you meet your husband, Emma?"

"I went to the Marcus Lincoln Grand Cinema and used the men's bathroom because the women's was full. You smiled at me, I stuttered an apology and rushed out of the bathroom, and you ditched your friends to sit right next to me and my friend Harriet as we watched _Inception_ together."

"What date was it?"

"It was my 20th birthday, August 26, 2010."

"Does your husband have any siblings?"

"He has a younger brother Dennis who lives in London with his wife Jeanine and two daughters. He's a book editor."

"When and how did your husband propose to you?"

"It was February 5, 2013. I had the chicken-pox. I'd never had it as a child and it took me out for a month. You brought ice cream as you came home and I had almost fallen asleep on the couch on top of you when you put a ring in my palm and asked me."

"When did you get married?"

"July 22, 2013, the same day Prince George was born. We got married in my parents' back yard and spent our honeymoon in a cabin in Montana where your uncle Mark lives."

"What does your husband do?"

"He's an electrician."

"Company's name?"

"Locke Construction."

"Good. Who is your emergency contact?"

"My husband Anthony Philip Matthews."

"When and where was he born?"

Isabella paused and opened the binder but closed it straight thereafter. "I'm not that far yet, Edward."

"Anthony," he corrected. "Anthony. Calling me Anthony has to be your immediate instinct, Emma. You get trapped, kidnapped, threatened, lost in a store—you will call me Anthony."

"Why didn't you change your first name from what you used back at the UB?"

Tightening his grip on the steering wheel, he tilted his head on the side. "It's my middle name."

"So?"

He hesitated. "I'll tell you some other time. Okay, Emma?"

"Understood."

She wasn't as curt in her tone as she was in her wording, and they locked eyes in front of a red light.

"Your memory is quite exceptional," he commented, professional and sincere.

"If I were a character in a TV show, I'd say I have photographic memory, but that's bullshit. There's no such thing. I use the method of loci."

He raised his eyebrows.

"A dude in Ancient Greek walked out of a building for it to collapse moments later. He then had the unpleasant job of guiding loved ones to their family members."

"How does that help anything?"

"I'll rent you a book."

His lips twitched, and they drove in silence for a while.

"I understand that all this detail about how we met seems unnecessary, but the more specific our story is, the more believable it will be. People who get caught in a web of lies are people who forget versions it. We can only have one version, Emma, and repeating the same version makes it credible. If we add to the story, emotions, shared words, anything, then we both need to accept the added facts and repeat them if the same question arises from another person. Credibility is a must."

"Do you repeat my name in every sentence so that it would come more naturally?"

"Yes," he replied. "And you should do the same—at least during the first week."

They arrived at a parking lot. Edward reminded her to put the belongings she needed in his bag because it would be their shared hand luggage. He didn't have to say it for her to know that most of the content of her bag, as well as her bag itself, would be thrown away.

"What's in that envelope Whitlock gave you?"

Placing it securely in the middle of a book, he hesitated, staring at her in silence before he made up his mind.

"Passports and driving licenses for Annabelle and Stephen Cooper."

"Is that usual? To keep backup identities with you?"

"No," he replied. "I could lie to you to take the pressure off, but you are our top priority witness. I've gone over more backup plans for our time together than I've ever seen being made."

She took a breath, closing her eyes, leaning forward and rubbing her forehead, and when she finally looked at him, he was watching her, patient but concerned.

"It's too much to take in," he said quietly. "I shouldn't have told you."

"No, I'm glad you did. Thank you. I can take it." She zipped up the jacket that hung on her frame. "What happens if the security has doubts about our identities or finds the extra identifications? Or both?"

"A call will be made to a high government official."

"Carlisle?"

"Higher."

"And then what?"

"They'll let us go." He squeezed her bicep to get her to look at him. When she did, his soft, earnest eyes gave her the strangest urge to be held. "We're not breaking the law. Seven people in this world know who you are, and two of them are sitting in this car. This plan, all backup plans and anything you or I will have to do to keep you alive is in accordance with those five people. Even if it feels like it, we are not breaking the law."

"Anthony."

"Emma?"

"There will be people at the airport, my father's underlings… security he's done business with."

"I know. Point them out to me and we'll deal with potential issues as they occur."

Edward sent a text to Whitlock to tell him the location of the car as they walked away from it. They turned away from their original route to throw her duffel bag in a trash can. Their quiet footsteps echoed in the relative darkness, but as they neared the airport, taxis and buses, lights and people and bittersweet goodbyes surrounded them in spite of the early hours.

Edward caught her wrist to stop her.

"I almost forgot." He fished something out of his pocket before he stretched out her palm and put a ring in it. She weighed it, feeling his breath on top of her head as he stood close. She put it on as surreptitiously as she could. He did the same before adjusting the strap of his bag, put down his gun case and surrounded her with his arms. His proximity and intentions were professional, she knew, even when his breath ghosted over her ear, but it had been years since she'd been properly held. She liked it. She liked his warmth a little too much.

"I'm not going to do anything to make you uncomfortable on purpose," he whispered, keeping distance between their bodies in spite of the hug. "But I might hold your hand, hold you close or turn to hug you if something needs to be said, and I suggest you do the same. It's less risky if it looks like our intentions are romantic rather than have the purpose of sharing information. Nod if you agree."

She nodded.

He let his arms drop from around her, picked up his gun case, and motioned for her to wrap both arms around one of his. Having entered the building, it became apparent that security had been doubled. Isabella eyed their faces, trying to look bored but feeling increasingly tense. By the time they made it to the check-in line, she'd recognized three faces.

"I don't think I can do this, Anthony."

He placed his gun case between them and squeezed her shoulders. "Of course you can, Emma. I understand you're afraid of flying, but we've been over this, okay? You can do this. C'mere."

He engulfed her in a hug, lips so close to her ear they brushed her skin.

"Where?"

"Leather shoes, holding an iPhone by the entrance. The woman scanning the cafeteria, curly hair, strong build, and I don't know who he is, but a man recognized me by the window. Blonde hair, one earring."

Every person she pointed out was wearing a security uniform. Increased security to catch her brother meant more familiar faces for Isabella. More people who could be co-operating with her brother instead of trying to catch him.

"There are three of our guys here, too. Don't reveal your face to the crowd and stay close to me." Slowly, he pulled away, rubbing her upper arms as if in comfort. "It'll be okay, Emma. Here, can you crouch? I need to fill out this document."

Letting him use her back as a table was a normal enough thing to do at the airport, and because Isabella was virtually unidentifiable in this position, he took his time filling the Firearm Unloaded Declaration form.

He made a brief call, as he, again, used abbreviations and code words unfamiliar to her. Two minutes later, a suited man approached the blonde one who'd recognized her, and they left without looking at Isabella.

She felt her heartbeat in her ears as they went through security, and he must've noticed her pale face because the moment they'd gathered their stuff, he threw a casual arm over her shoulder and made her lean against him.

"You okay?"

"I would feel much more comfortable if you could wear a gun."

"Me, too."

They found three tax-free stores that were open 24/7 and bought new clothes for her, a pair of green hiking pants—fitting but not her style—and a light grey sweatshirt. It was men's size M, much too large, but it was the only one lacking any touristy declarations of the Baltimore Ravens or Orioles, and they didn't need a clothing item to trace them anywhere. Edward, in his part, seemed relieved that she chose the first clothing items that remotely fit her, and chatted with the owner of the store as Isabella changed into the clothes they'd bought. The owner was taken by them as a couple, and it was the first time for them to act like one around a captive audience. He didn't do much. Brushing her knuckles, leaning a little too close, an arm slung over her shoulder and a smiling goodbye to the owner.

They bought a snack and warm drinks (coffee for Isabella, tea for Edward) for breakfast. At their terminal, he found a spot on the floor by a wall to leave a little space between them and the crowd, and made her throw her legs over his as they both leaned against the wall. There were others sitting on the floor, but not too close.

Edward was careful in his touches, affectionate but professional and with the aim of having her ear close enough to talk without anyone hearing or lip-reading his words.

"There's an air marshal on our flight. He will give me a nod when he sees me. I want you to pay attention to who he is."

She turned her head as if to brush a kiss on his neck.

"Why?"

"Just in case."

She nodded, crossing her legs when she turned away. She didn't have a phone, a tab or a laptop, not even a book or an mp3 player, so she pressed her upper arm against his and leaned forward to catch the title of the book he had opened, _Peril at End House_.

"A fan of Agatha Christie?"

She didn't know why it brought her such joy to have something in common with him, but it did.

"Always." His smile reached his eyes. "Have you read this one?"

"Yes, but don't worry, I won't spoil. You ever read _And Then There Were None_?"

"Not yet, why?"

"I envy you," she replied. "I wish I'd never read it just so I could read it again without knowing all the plot twists. It will blow your mind, Anthony."

"Will it now?"

His eyes sparkled. She realized she knew next to nothing about him, but she wanted to. She wanted to be on the receiving end of that sparkle in his eyes. She wanted a friend to share interests with.

She started to read the book with him. Twenty minutes before their flight was scheduled to board, a thin, ginger man wearing jeans and a black jacket walked down the hallway. He made eye contact with Edward and offered the briefest of nods before he passed them by. He had no luggage. She felt like she'd imagined the ordeal altogether, but Edward held her eyes long enough to be significant. She'd recognize the man now.

She felt confused, however, when they stood in line to board the plane and a second, short and black-haired man gave Edward a nod when he passed them by. It wasn't until they'd shown their boarding passes and started walking toward the plane that Isabella caught Edward's gaze.

"Two?" she asked.

He closed his eyes once, offering the briefest of nods that felt like an affirmation.

One of the air marshals sat across the aisle from her, two rows back, and the other one sat on the other side of the plane; if, indeed, she understood Edward correctly and there were two of them. Were they there to make sure her brother wouldn't get away on a plane? Did they recognize her? She knew her sense of importance was misguided, but when two air marshals sat on the same plane with her, it didn't feel like a coincidence.

Edward's eyes were scanning faces as the plane filled, but Isabella felt tired. When her attempts to sleep failed during take-off, she looked over at Edward who seemed to be immersed in his book.

"Anthony?"

The intensity in his gaze made her uncomfortable, and she felt silly, asking this of him again.

"Never mind."

"What's the matter?"

She hesitated. "I can't sleep."

Holding her gaze but not saying a word, he offered her his open palm. She slid her hand in it and smiled in gratitude.

"You can rest your head on my arm if you want," he said, turning back to his book. "Do you want me to wake you up for snack?"

"No. If I fall asleep, let me sleep."

She leaned her head against his shoulder.

An hour into their flight, Edward felt more than saw a young man coming from the lavatory who stopped next to their seats and openly stared at the sleeping face of Isabella. Some of her blonde hair covered her face, but the other half was visible.

The man wore light jeans and a long-sleeved T-shirt. He had black hair, dark eyes, and barely discernible tan-lines around his eyes. He was tall.

"Excuse me," Edward said, quietly but clearly. "May I ask why you're staring at my wife?"

Mouth agape, the man's eyes snapped to Edward's, but he recovered quickly.

"My apologies, sir." He gripped the edges of the headrests surrounding the isle next to Isabella. "It's just—I went to school for half a year with Bella in New Mexico. Alta Vista Middle School in Carlsbad. I mean, wow. It makes sense for her to flee Baltimore after the shit that went down—"

"I'm sorry to disappoint you, but I'm afraid you have the wrong person, young man." Edward didn't blink once when the man held his gaze. "My wife Emma has never lived in New Mexico. She's a Nebraskan to the bone."


	3. Hyundai Accent

…

 **Emma Matthews**  
by Anton M.

 **Chapter 3: Hyundai Accent**

…

"Emma?" He stared at Isabella's sleeping face. "Are you sure?"

Edward feigned a smile that said he felt sorry for the man. "One would imagine I know my own wife."

"Yes, of course. I mean no disrespect," he replied, still hovering, pointing at her with his hand. "It's just—the resemblance is… it's uncanny. But I s'pose the Bella I knew, she had shit for family. New Zealand wouldn't be far enough from her brother, so I hope she's way farther than Milwaukee. Besides, she'd have rather died than dyed her hair blonde. Sorry for bothering you, sir."

"Not a problem," he answered. "I'm sorry you didn't get to reconnect with that Bella girl you're describing."

"Me, too." His eyes were wistful, but he let go of the headrests. "Have a good day, sir."

Even without turning his head, Edward knew they'd garnered some attention. For good measure, he pressed his lips against her hair and squeezed her hand, appearing entirely unconcerned as he continued to read his novel. He knew Air Marshal Brodbeck had noticed the exchange and would be keeping an eye on the young man. He wouldn't, of course, know anything more about Isabella's predicament than what he'd read on the news (and now that the boy had recognized her, the Air Marshal would, most certainly, have an idea about the Witness Protection, but he wouldn't be foolish enough to voice it).

He didn't wake her up until the last moment before landing, and when she did open her eyes, Edward, knowing that they had yet to work out code words for situations like this, pulled her to him. His voice was barely audible.

"Avoid eye contact with all passengers."

He watched the lighter dots around her irises as she stared at him before nodding. Patiently, he waited for the passengers to leave, making sure the guy who'd recognized her wouldn't have the chance to look at Isabella's face. After most people had left, Edward shared a few words with Air Marshal Brodbeck. Isabella's brother had yet to leave traces of himself, and all planes leaving Baltimore today had an Air Marshal on it.

Waiting in line to get Edward's gun case returned to him, Isabella recognized a profile of a guy from a distance. Black hair, talkative, much thinner than she remembered—her closest friend in seventh grade. She would've loved to go say hi, to find out what he'd been doing all these years or what brought him to Milwaukee, but instead, she turned away, hid her left hand in her sleeve and her ears under her hair. She had three birthmarks on her left ear, perfectly aligned, and no matter which fairy tales she fed him if they met, he would know. He'd recognize her if the only thing she did was lock eyes with him, she just knew it. So it pained her to do it, but she didn't seek contact with him.

"What's wrong?" Edward asked, noticing the guarded expression on her face.

She tilted her head toward the guy, wanting to tell Edward she knew someone here without having to say so, but she cast a brief glance behind her, and Edward, somehow, knew. She didn't know how, but he did.

He switched sides and put an arm around her shoulder, pulling her to him and effectively covering her from the man's point of view. He nuzzled her hair, not quite kissing it but hovering above her hair, saying nothing for a while. As they advanced in line, they moved together.

"Later," he whispered, letting go of her to receive his gun-case. She didn't need him to elaborate.

Isabella asked Edward to wait as she found a bathroom. It felt reminiscent of child-like freedom to move without a phone or a purse or an ID, but the emotion faded as she continued to sit in the stall, resting her head on her hands, holding her breath until she had to let it out. She repeated the process until her exhales became erratic, until she had to bite her knuckles to muffle her sobs, until she remembered her mother's concerned voice, telling her father that little Bella had an abnormal ability to let her wounds show only when it suited her. He was proud. His youngest was tough as nails, that one. Never let anyone see her cry, that one.

So it felt raw and necessary, and she'd never done it with an ulterior motive, but today, she rubbed her eyes to emphasize. She'd avoided actions that drew attention to her moments of fragility, and she'd never thought she'd be grateful to be able to let out emotions only when it suited her, but today, she was.

She exited her stall.

Her reflection showed her internal struggle, and as she stood, crying silently in front of strangers, waiting, a kind woman stopped in front of her. Isabella knew that someone would. If they hadn't, she would've asked for a phone. Someone would help, she knew.

Briefly, she considered playing dumb, going with the Spanish _Me han robado._ _¿_ _Puedo usar su tel_ _é_ _fono, por favor?_

"All you all right, my dear?"

The elderly lady squeezed her shoulder, leaning closer, as a middle-aged woman and a girl observed them. Isabella bit her lip, knowing it would tremble, and went for a weak accent. "I… My bag was—stolen. I have to… my phone."

"Were you supposed to meet with anyone?"

"Yes, but…" She closed her eyes, letting a few tears flow. "I can't… my phone."

The woman dug out her cell phone, holding it out to her.

"Thank you," Isabella replied, looking up before dialing. "Thank you so much."

"Of course, my dear."

Isabella waited, hoping that her roommate had a phone with her. She didn't have a second shot at this.

"Rosalie."

It felt wonderful to hear a familiar voice, and she smiled, exhaling.

"Mamá… Mi bolso fue robado. Michael… Él debía recogerme en el aeropuerto hace una hora. ¿Podrías venir a recogerme… por favor, mamá?"

Rosalie took a breath on the other end of the line.

"Can you tell me where you are?"

"Treinta."

"Are you in danger?"

"Azul."

"Love you," she said, pausing. "Stay safe."

"Te quiero, mamá. Nos vemos."

She disconnected the call, deleting the number before she returned the phone. The elderly lady smiled at her.

"Do you need me to stay until your mother gets here, my dear?"

How young did she look, really?

"No," Isabella replied, wiping her damp face but smiling. "It was… very kind of you to help the stranger. I will throw some water on my face to calm down. I know exactly when and where she'll come. Thank you."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes," she answered, eager to get the woman out of the door before she saw her and Edward together. "I don't wish to hold you. I just need to calm down for a while. Thank you for your kindness."

The woman patted her shoulder, uncertain-looking before squeezing it. "If you have any trouble at all, airport security will help you. Okay, my dear?"

"Oh… thank you. I didn't think of that."

Edward looked nervous as he rubbed the strap of his bag, looking everywhere and nowhere at once, waiting. When Isabella tapped his shoulder, he sighed in relief. He blinked at her red-rimmed eyes, and the awkward posture felt very unlike her. As always, a question about her crying seemed to be on the tip of his tongue, but he didn't voice it.

"Everything okay?"

"Yup," she replied. "Let's go."

Isabella wondered what Edward was looking for as they walked through the large parking lot, but at the very end of it, a man stepped out of a grey Hyundai. He had curly, light-brown hair, undefined eyebrows, and he was, maybe, five foot ten. He could've been in his mid-forties.

"Varney," Edward said.

The man shook hands with Edward before holding his hand out to Isabella. "Call me Seth."

"Emma. It's a pleasure."

Other than holding Edward's gaze, the man didn't react.

"Very good," he said, closing his jacket in a way that revealed the presence of a gun (at least to her), and she remembered the name. He was a Marshal. She noticed he'd (no doubt, carefully) chosen a meeting spot with no traffic beside them and no security cameras.

"Any updates on Jacob?" Edward asked.

"Nothing you don't already know. You're good to go."

"Thanks."

Seth smiled at Isabella. "I would've bought groceries but then I remembered how picky he is."

He seemed to have an easy-going, light attitude, but Edward was all business.

"It's fine. We'll stop by a Walmart."

"All right." He, once again, shook hands with Isabella. "Nice meeting you. I'll see you around."

He gave the car keys to Edward and walked away.

"Picky eater, huh?"

Edward looked at her, but didn't comment. He returned his guns to their original places before they drove into the cloudy but windless noon. They ate at Drake's Cafe, stopped at the West Milwaukee Walmart to buy groceries, and it wasn't until they turned to I-94 that Isabella seemed to relax beside him; he hadn't realized how tense she'd been. He observed her as she read the binder but didn't interrupt, wondering just how screwed up her life had been before not to show any signs of distress—at least not in front of him. Usually, it was his job to reassure the protected witness that they were, in fact, in safe hands. Not this time.

Did she not question their choices because that's how used to danger she was? Did she feel unfazed because she knew her brother better than any of the experts combined? Because she'd been (quite) involved in the decision-making? Or did she only _look_ unfazed? Her lack of apparent worry was starting to worry him, too, and he found it an uncomfortable state of mind to have. He trusted her, he'd _told_ her he trusted her. He couldn't afford doubts.

When the passing trees and skyline caught her attention, she closed the binder and turned to him.

"Why aren't you accusing me of lying to you?"

"If you're admitting to abusing my trust, you should be more specific."

"I listed Wisconsin as one of the states where I'd never been, where I knew nobody and assured Carlisle of the fact. Yet, there he was."

He hesitated. "Who, exactly?"

She wrapped her hair in a pony tail before turning her attention to him. "Daniel Marquez Salas."

"He said you went to school with him in New Mexico."

"You spoke to him?"

"He saw your face as he passed us by. I convinced him he was mistaken, but his voice drew attention and quite a few passengers tried to catch sight of your face. Thank you for following my orders."

"Of course." She turned away her gaze. "He's… he added me on Facebook a couple of years ago. Maybe that's how he recognized me."

"Maybe."

"You're not mad?"

"You went to, what, eight schools in the course of twelve years?"

"Eleven. Eleven schools in five states and two countries."

"Right," he replied. "And you expect me to believe that nobody—nobody—from these eleven schools in five different states and two countries would travel or have relatives or step out of their homes for the next four months?"

"It would be quite convenient."

"Yes." He smiled. "But life isn't, which is why we will know our story and history back and forth. Nothing may contradict."

"Is your mother a linguist?"

He looked at her in surprise. "An English teacher. How did you know?"

"No reason," she replied, smiling to herself. She could feel his eyes on her as they got stuck in traffic, but he didn't ask again.

"That guy, he called you Bella."

"I'm sure he did."

"Is that what your friends call you?"

"Used to," she corrected. "Past tense. Although one could argue that I've rarely had enough time to form relationships meaningful enough to be considered friendships."

He couldn't help but feel sorry for her, to be moving constantly until you were effectively alienated from your peers, but he didn't think admitting it to Isabella could achieve anything.

"You don't prefer Bella?"

"Not anymore."

"Hmm," he replied. "So, Daniel what's-his-name, he was your friend?"

"I'd like to think so. We didn't hang out at school, but we were inseparable in the afternoons."

"Did you play computer games?"

She side-eyed him, but it was teasing. "No. I mean, yes, he liked them, but I liked the more technical stuff, how to make my computer do certain stuff, or better yet, how to make his computer follow my commands. But no, his mom usually took me with them to Carlsbad Caverns National Park where she worked as a ranger. She trekked and roamed with us in the caves as much as we wanted. My favorite was the Spider Cave Tour, but… at the end of my stay, Dan and I knew all of them by heart."

"Did you father mind?"

"No."

"Really?"

"Why? You think all evil in the world starts with my dad?"

"No, I just…" Edward hesitated, looking ahead. "Never mind. How long were you there?"

"Half a year," she answered, opening the binder, but instead of ending the conversation, she ran her fingers across its edges, pensive.

"He was my first kiss," she added.

He observed her from the corner of his eye. He felt protective, somehow, thinking about the tall, lean and tan guy holding Isabella's small waist as they… he wasn't eager to imagine it. But he was glad she'd been friends with him.

"How old were you?"

"7th grade, so twelve, I think."

He smiled. "I bet all the girls were jealous of you."

She returned his smile, and he wished she wore that playful smile more often. "Even if they'd known—which they couldn't because, first, kissing a boy is not something I would talk about, and second, everyone was ordered not to communicate with me—the 12-year-old Dan was slightly chubby and not at all smooth with girls. But he was talkative and interesting and… I dunno. Kinda sweet. Plus, his family didn't care about my father."

"And that didn't happen often?"

"Uh, no," she replied, her smile wistful but hurt, too. "A handful of times, at best."

He wanted to know more, but she lifted her binder and started reading it, ignoring his glances.

Twenty minutes later, she shut the binder, and when she pulled her legs up to wrap her arms around them, Edward turned down the volume of the radio.

"Want to tell me about your husband?"

"My husband Anthony Philip Matthews is 30 years old. He was born on December 2, 1984, in Omaha, Nebraska, at home. His father gave him the name Anthony because he was conceived in Anthony, Kansas, and—"

"It doesn't say that, does it?"

"No."

"But such a place exists?"

"Yes. It's a small town in the Southern part of Kansas. I've paid a visit. You don't like it? You told me the more specific our story, the more credible it will seem."

"No, it just took me by surprise. It's good. Let's use it."

"Yeah?"

He'd let her add anything to keep that light in her eyes.

"Of course. Please, continue."

She smiled at him before turning her eyes back on the road. "On January 30th 1986, two days after the Space Shuttle _Challenger_ exploded, Anthony's mother Jane Margaret Keller, a Business Consultant specializing in Human Resources Consulting, and father Max Matthews who, at the time, worked in Customer Service for the Hy-Vee Supermarket, decided to move to Kansas City, Missouri, where they stayed for three years. They returned to Omaha when Anthony was five, and his father became an Assistant Manager at Walmart and a Manager five years later. Anthony attended Sunset Hills Elementary School, Westside Middle School and Westside High School. He worked as a construction worker for a year before he started attending Metropolitan Community College Fort Omaha Campus in an Electrical Apprenticeship Program."

"When did he graduate?"

"He was twenty five, so… 2009. A year before we met in Lincoln."

"What brought him to Lincoln?"

"A job opportunity at Best Service Electricity."

"Have you met his brother?"

"Once, at our wedding."

"Tell me about your wedding."

Bella pointedly put the binder in the backseat, resting her forehead against her knees. "Please tell me I don't need to memorize or know or explain that shit."

The corner of his mouth rose. " _That shit_ was the best day of your life. Wasn't it, Emma?"

She plastered a fake smile on her face, waving her hand once in mockery, voice high-pitched and quite comical. "Oh, Anthony, it was _soo_ perfect. _Soo_ perfect. I, like, totally wore, like, a white princess dress with a massive veil and when I walked down the aisle and looked into the bottomless pools of my future husband's gorgeous eyes, I just knew I'd, like, spend the rest of my life with him."

Edward locked eyes with her, and neither reacted before the corner of his mouth lifted and he started laughing. His silent belly laugh was unexpectedly endearing and Isabella couldn't help but join in.

"Please, please, _please_ tell me we can make up a version I would be able to recite without puking."

Still smiling, he pondered on her question.

"If you can't bring yourself to talk about this version without a grimace, we need one. I'll update a few people."

She reached out to squeeze his forearm. "Thank you, Edward. Thanks for not making me repeatedly imagine a wedding I'd run away from."

He nodded, once, and the small smile hadn't left his face. "So, tell me, Emma. What was our wedding like?"

"A small, secluded affair. Your family, my family, nobody else. When we met, I'd promised you I'd only ever get married in a potato sack, so that's what I wore."

He laughed, and it was that same precious, belly laugh she was starting to cherish.

"Indeed, a potato sack," she repeated. "My husband Anthony, however, bare-toed in grass, wore his favorite black shorts and a crinkled linen shirt. My friend Alice played Olexandr Ignatov on the piano inside, but the door was open, and you were smiling yourself stupid when I walked to you, bare-toed in the grass, and I put the tiara on my head on top of your brother's dog's head. His dog was your best man because Dennis refused."

She didn't mention that, in third grade, a girl named Alice who played the piano was the first friend she'd ever had.

"Is that so?"

His voice was teasing and sounded quite happy.

"M'hmm," she continued. "It started drizzling when you recited your vows and I made up mine, and when all was said and done, we sat on the grass in spite of the warm rain and enjoyed some take-out Thai food. Thirty minutes later, we left our families alone with free liquor and took off to your uncle Mark's cabin in Montana. It was wicked."

He looked at her, not having seen her talk this light-heartedly, and somehow, the oddball wedding she'd made up on the spot… he _liked_ it. He'd never imagined a wedding, but a silly and untraditional one like that, how could he say no?

"There are two problems."

"Constructive criticism only, I'm afraid."

"The _most_ constructive," he teased back, suppressing a smile. "Firstly, it's too good."

"Were you listening? I just said I was wearing a _potato_ _sack_."

"It's too good. You recite that story and you get famous for your wedding."

"Noted. And the other thing?"

"With a wedding like that, people _will_ ask to see pictures."

"Oh, that one's easy. I didn't allow cameras because I'm the queen of pretentious."

"Not having cameras isn't pretentious." He tilted his head on the side, as if in a shrug. "I wouldn't have cameras at mine. Does that make me pretentious?"

"Gwyneth Paltrow level." She grinned.

"Thanks," he replied dryly.

She didn't mention that she, too, wouldn't really care much for cameras at her wedding—not that it mattered. She was pretty sure this was a part of life reserved for normal people who could form normal relationships under normal circumstances. That's why brainstorming random shit was so much fun, especially the part where he was too polite to tell her nobody had weddings like that.

"I like your version, but it needs tweaking. It needs to be less memorable."

"Aren't you just a ball of joy and ideas."

He smiled. "The potato sack has to go."

"Pity." She didn't sound surprised as she put her crossed arms on top of her knees and rested her cheek on it. "That was the best part."

"How about a red dress? That's different enough."

"With pockets?"

"Sure."

"Pictures of penguins?"

"Don't push it."

He enjoyed the smile on her face.

"First dance song?"

"Why do you care about this shit?"

"You're a girl, Emma. Girls ask that stuff when they get to know each other."

"I resent that."

"You don't want me to generalize? Okay. _Statistically_ speaking, girls are likely to bring a subject like this up, and when they do, we need to have the same answer."

"I'm fine with that pseudo-statistics. I'll play." She sighed. "Eric Clapton?"

"Not a fan."

"Etta James, _At Last_?"

"Style?"

"Blues-y, jazz-y, I think."

"Hate the genre."

"How about something corny, old-timey. The Beatles? _Maybe I_ _'_ _m Amazed_?"

"Firstly, that's Paul McCartney, and secondly, it is neither corny nor old-time-y."

"Excusez-moi, Mr. Touchy. Will it work, though?"

"How about The Beatles, _Here Comes the Sun_? It's a bit more upbeat."

"It's a deal," she replied, pausing. "Any other changes except for my red penguin dress?"

"Red dress, Emma. No penguins."

"Okay, okay. Questions stands, though."

"I don't think so. We can have the oddball Thai delivery and leave our families to their liquor. You'll need to make me listen to that piano piece, though."

"Ningún problema, Eduardo."

"Do you speak fluent Spanish?"

"Si, pero tengo un pequeño problema con la ortografía."

He couldn't help but smile. "You said something about spelling issues, didn't you?"

"M'hmm."

They turned south at Johnson Creek to Highway 26, and he noticed that the concealer on the side of her neck had worn off and drew her attention to it. They were going to arrive in fifteen minutes and he'd rather not meet their neighbors with suspicions of domestic abuse. She hid the bruise, and when she turned her head so that Edward could make sure she concealed it all, he saw a fake tattoo behind her neck he hadn't seen before. It was a ladybug.

"You're good to go," he said, tearing his eyes from her neck. She rested her chin on her knees.

"So where, exactly, is our destination?"

"Fort Atkinson. Population of roughly ten thousand people. It's quite beautiful, I've heard. We're renting a house from a friend on Fifth Street, just under Bark River."

"Does your friend know about me?"

"No. To her, you are Emma, my wife."

"Okay."

She stared at the scenery, the warm-colored tag alders and maples with wisps of buckthorn thrown in. He observed her profile. Her hands peeked out from the large sweatshirt they'd bought and the back of her left hand showed a pale, angular burn mark the size of a thumb. As her fingernails scraped her pants absent-mindedly, he was reminded to make sure they bought clothes for her.

"You said there were two people in this world you'd trust with your life. Who is the second?"

He was struck by the youth in her eyes as she held eye contact. Her expression was fragile but, somehow, all the more beautiful because of it, and she closed her eyes for a second before staring at the road.

"My father."

* * *

 **Translations:**

Me han robado. ¿Puedo usar su teléfono, por favor? - I've been robbed. Can I use your phone, please?

Mi bolso fue robado. - My bag was stolen.

Michael… Él debía recogerme en el aeropuerto hace una hora. ¿Podrías venir a recogerme… por favor, mamá? - Michael… he was supposed to pick me up at the airport an hour ago. Can you come pick me up… please, mom?

Treinta. - Thirty.

Azul. - Blue.

Te quiero, mamá. Nos vemos. - I love you, mom. See you later.

Ningún problema. - No problem.

Si, pero tengo un pequeño problema con la ortografía. - Yes, but I have some spelling problems.


	4. 27 Fifth Street

…

 **Emma Matthews**  
by Anton M.

 **Chapter 4: 27 Fifth Street**

…

They pulled up in front of a small, two-story house. It was white. A large willow hid half of the house, and Isabella ran her fingers through its branches before catching Edward's eye. He smiled, confident and unguarded as he waived at a passing cyclist who pulled the breaks two houses down the road. An elderly man stopped weeding his garden, looking up, and both Edward and Isabella raised their hand in greeting.

People seemed friendly.

The entire situation, arriving like this to a strange town only to see the normal routines of families in a subdivision, it felt odd to her. Was it supposed to feel like that? She'd spent so much of her time looking over her shoulder she'd forgotten what it feels like to wave at a neighbor and not expect him to disappear in terror.

The hallway opened to a kitchen and a bedroom on the left, with a living room on their right where a woman sat in armchair. Her hair was short and stylish, she wore glasses and a pair of light jeans. A smile lit her face as she hugged Edward. Pulling back, she held his upper arms, eyeing him.

"Married, huh?"

Edward reached out to Isabella, resting his hand on the small of her back as she shook hands with the woman.

"It's a pleasure, Emma," she said. "I'm Elizabeth. Beth."

"Very nice to meet you, Beth."

"Do you need clothes?"

Because she'd had a lot more important things to think about, the question was unexpected for her (and how could she know?), but Edward cut in.

"We'll buy some tomorrow."

"What about pajamas?"

"I'm okay," she replied. "But thank you for your offer."

"Let me know if you need anything."

Isabella smiled, recognizing the look they shared, knowing they wanted to talk alone, and excused herself to the bathroom.

Beth had left when she returned. Edward was stocking the fridge, offering a brief, polite smile when she passed him and leaned against the counter.

"How did she know I didn't have clothes?"

He continued to empty their grocery bag before closing the fridge.

"I called her from the airport and claimed that our luggage went missing."

"Smart."

He shrugged.

"So she didn't recognize me?"

"Of course not, Emma."

"Daniel did."

"Daniel knew you once."

"He still recognized me," she argued. "Should we do anything about it? Glasses? Hair?"

He paused, eyeing her.

"Plastic surgery."

" _Excuse me_?"

He smiled. "I'm kidding."

She breathed a sigh of relief.

"He didn't recognize you because the changes we made to your appearance are lacking, he recognized you because he once knew you quite intimately."

"How do you know?"

"You have to trust our story, Isabella. If people comment on your appearance, you and I will tell them about our life as if we've lived it."

"Credibility. I remember."

She boiled rice while he made a sauce, and they ate lunch before exploring the house. It had a small bedroom downstairs with a gym and a bigger bedroom upstairs.

Bella put her only possessions, a small bag of new underwear, socks, and a swimsuit (that she couldn't believe Edward let her keep) on top of a chair in the bigger bedroom, eyeing him.

"So this one's for me? No arguments?"

"It wouldn't make sense for you to sleep closer to the door. If we have visitors, which is unlikely but not impossible, I'll sleep here with you. The same will happen in case we have reason to believe someone is on to us. Okay?"

"I'm not in the habit of arguing with a voice of reason."

He smiled. "I'll leave some of my things in your bedroom in case we let prying eyes in our house."

The gym had a rowing machine, a treadmill, and a scale-like machine that, even when Edward informed her was a vibration plate, she had no idea how to use. There was a thick exercise mat in the corner, the kind you couldn't lift, and a punching bag.

With all its comforts, the house lacked a pool.

She would've lived under a rock if it had a pool.

There were books on gardening and fishing (two subjects that could bore her to death) but also on the nature of cognitive function, psychology, and even books touching physics—Michio Kaku, Richard Feynman, Stephen Hawking. A bit too light, a bit too popular, but nevertheless interesting. But when she saw no books on mathematics and programming, she knew she'd convince Edward to visit a library, if, indeed, he needed convincing.

After they were done discovering their new home, both sat on the brown, L-shaped couch in the corner of their living room. Edward turned down the volume of the TV.

"We moved here because I got a job offer at Locke Construction. This offer coincided with our apartment lease coming to an end in Lincoln, and neither of us is particularly materialistic, which is why we gave the few furniture items we had to your parents and our friends."

"Which explains why we didn't come here with a U-Haul rental."

"Exactly."

Edward raised his legs on the couch, crossing them. Isabella faced him, resting her head against the back of the couch. He had a contemplative way about him. Relaxed and confident, polite in the way he listened to her opinion but passionate enough to make his opinion known when it mattered. He was resolute but considerate. She liked that. She hoped he'd make a good companion, a person to trust, and perhaps a friend.

She'd like to have a friend. She hadn't had many in her life.

"So what happens now?"

"We wait," he replied. "I suggest not developing any significant relationships with anyone, but… I doubt I have to tell you that. Within the confines of our story, be natural. Talk to neighbors, people at a store… behave in a way you normally would after moving to a new place."

"Really?" she asked. "Do you really want to know what I've normally experienced after moving to a new place?"

He watched her in silence.

"By all means," he replied. "This conversation is not confined by my ability to listen but by your willingness to share."

She looked away, as displeased by his comment as she was fascinated by his keen eye.

"As I said, behave in a way that you feel is natural after moving to a new place, even if that hypothetical experience is unrelated to your own. We'll spend a few days together, but after that, I have errands to run, so I'll leave you with Varney for a few evenings. Day or night, you will have company. Most days, you can expect to live with me and see me and talk to me. Life will be easier if we get along, so if you have any issues, I want to hear about them directly from you the moment a problem arises. Do you agree to that?"

"Naturally."

"Good." He rubbed his face with his palm, thinking. "I would prefer if you talked to me about… whatever you feel burdens you. I'm not going to push or comment or pry, and I will mostly leave you alone if that's what you want. You might not say a word about your experience in the course of these four months, and that's okay, too. But you must know that I am here. It is my job to be here, but I'm in this with you. I'm at an equal position not to contact my family or friends. Your life is my responsibility, and I do not take that lightly, Isabella. You must know that."

Surprised by his serious but truthful words, she shifted under his gaze.

"I don't doubt you," she said.

"I'm glad. All of the aforementioned also means that I am your go to person by default, and I don't want you to feel stifled by that but see it as an opportunity."

"To do what? To pour my heart out to you? To whine about my life?"

"Either. Both. I don't care. But I see you…"

He trailed off, wondering what (not) to say, wondering if asking about her crying was too much too soon. He'd just told her he wouldn't, so he backed off.

"If everything goes according to our plan, you can hope and expect the next few months to become some of the least exciting ones in your life. We can discuss and prepare your testimony, but there's time, and meanwhile, you can spend your time however you see fit."

"I sense a _but_ in this."

He sighed. "But, in all honestly, with your brother after you, I find it highly improbable that everything goes according to our plan."

"Me, too," she replied. "I want to be in on all the backup plans we have. I want to be in on how far we think he's gotten and who he's got under his belt. I want to be in on everything."

He held her gaze for nearly a minute, admiring her intensity, and he felt the weight of this task on his shoulders. "It would be impossible to protect you from him without your cooperation."

She nodded but changed the subject.

"Don't you usually find real jobs for witnesses under protection?"

"We do, but your case needs more attention, and you will need 24/7 protection for the next four months. It's probable that we'll find a more permanent arrangement for you after you've testified."

"I can't go back to my own name."

"It's very likely. We need to see the impact your testimony will have to be able to make a reasonable decision."

"How confined am I to this house? Can I leave?"

"With me or Marshal Seth Varney."

"Can I find a pool?"

He hesitated.

"Oh, come on. I understand that this should feel like a four-month vacation from—being me—with all this free time and a personal gym, I understand that. But… those are decidedly external factors unrelated to my… emotional… well-being. Swimming helps me."

"Which means that anyone working with your brother will know to look for you in a pool."

"They don't know I'm in Wisconsin."

"All it takes is for one person to be at the right place at the right time looking in the right direction."

"Please, Edward. Please let me have this one piece of myself. I'll buy a new suit, I'll wear a mask, I'll never look anyone in the eye, I'll swim laps with no stops until I leave the pool. Please."

He got up and left to the kitchen before returning with his backpack. He took out a small bottle for contact lenses, a white Clear Care solution, and took out the contact lenses she didn't know he wore. She observed him, waiting for an answer. He put on a pair of frameless glasses that turned him from a reasonably attractive guy whose attraction derived from his character, lean build, and the way he took care of himself, into a guy she found herself being attracted to.

She'd always had a thing for nerds.

"I thought you had to have 20/20 vision to become a Marshal."

"You do, but you're allowed to use lenses to meet that standard."

Unaccustomed to his glasses, she observed him. He had kind eyes and a straight smile, and even though his crooked nose and eyebrows broke the symmetry, she'd rarely seen anyone whose looks could be improved upon with glasses.

"So, swimming?"

He rested his elbow behind the back of the couch, watching her.

"I'm not allowed to say yes. It's too risky."

"It's just swimming."

"No hobby is just a hobby when you enter the Witness Protection."

"You really think they'd find me?"

"I'd rather not find out."

"But—what if I convince Carlisle?"

"You don't have the means."

"I have his cell phone number."

"How in the world did you get that?"

"I know it by heart."

Edward paused, pulling his lower lip between his teeth.

"Even if I let you speak to him, he'll agree with me."

Isabella stared at him before lowering her gaze.

"Fine."

"I'm not doing this to upset you. Just think about it from your brother's point of view. He feels threatened by you, and we expect him to put no little effort to finding you. He has contacts in places we hope are exaggerated—"

"They're not."

"All the more reason to be inconspicuous. I would love to let you manage your issues the way you usually do, but… he will expect it. He will look for you in a pool, he will have people looking into everything you used to love, and he will start looking for patterns. Don't even try denying it."

She felt deflated but angry.

"So he gets to steal who I am," she replied. "I might as well have let him kill me while he had the chance."

Taken aback by the emotion, Edward kept silent, waiting for more. She avoided his gaze and added nothing.

"Isabella…"

"Don't."

She stood up, walked over to the window and bowed, hiding her face in her hands, shoulders hunched. He watched, feeling helpless but somehow, relieved, and then he felt bad about feeling relieved. With the strength she'd shown him, with how easily she'd put her life in his hands, with her intelligence and passion, he'd forgotten she was only human. He didn't want her to feel the way she did, but he was relieved that she'd finally showed an inkling of emotion to him, something real.

A minute later, she straightened and walked back to the couch, and he expected her show signs of crying, but her face was dry. Angry, but dry.

"I need a break," he said, deliberate in his wording. He figured that any suggestion of her needing a break would've been met with an argument. She nodded, and when he left to the kitchen, Isabella turned up the volume on the TV. She switched channels, stopping on a news channel from where, five minutes later, her brother's face looked at her.

She switched off the TV and found herself a book by Janet Malcolm, curling up with it in the corner of the couch. An hour later, Edward joined her with a book of his own, and both read their respective books until Edward closed his.

"Is it good?"

She frowned. "It's non-fiction. It's always good."

"I think we still have some things to discuss. Is now a good time?"

She closed her book, turning toward him, wondering why he was being so careful with her. He'd been considerate before, but not like this.

"Sure."

He put his book on top of hers.

"You can't have a routine time and place to be every week, whether it's the mall or a park or a cinema. Anyone with even the tiniest inkling of who you are cannot expect you in the same place at the same time the following week. It's crucial that you understand that."

"Does that mean I'm not allowed to wake up at the same time every day?"

"Not at all. Knock yourself out. If routines bring you comfort, have as many as you'd like—inside the house. Outside of it, your presence must never become expected, anywhere."

"Gotcha."

"And remember, we just arrived from Nebraska, so get as acquainted with the state as you can."

"It was the 37th state admitted to the union. The name derives from Otoe Indian, meaning "flat water", and refers to Platte River. Roughly 77 thousand square miles, population of around 2 million people—"

"Wait," he interrupted, but when she silenced, he only blinked at her.

"Did I make a mistake?"

She tucked her hair behind her ear, holding eye contact before looking down, fragile, as if she'd misbehaved. He'd known she was smart, but he hadn't known she'd have an intimidating memory for facts and figures. Something in the way she spoke, the facts she chose, the way she presented them… he hadn't seen how disconnected she was from, just… _life._ A knot tightened in his stomach.

"No," he replied, adding, "I don't think so."

"What, then?"

"It's… It's not a game show. It's impressive that you are able to memorize those facts so easily, but… focus more on the story, the people, the experience of having lived there. The weather, the places to go, the idiosyncrasies of a state that would help us produce memories that don't exist."

She kept her eyes in her lap, and her voice was quiet. "Okay."

He felt like a schoolteacher, scolding her, and he didn't like the feeling.

"Hey, look at me."

She did.

"You didn't do anything wrong. I've never seen anyone take in their new life as easily or memorize anything as quickly as you do. But I'm not going to punish you, in any way, for mistakes. It's okay if this is all too much. As long as we manage to keep you alive, nothing else matters, okay?"

She nodded, looking away, frowning, but a moment later, a slow, timid smile covered her face as she lifted her index finger and gave Edward a brief nod. He waited for an explanation, but she kept silent.

"Is that supposed to mean something?"

"I had a classmate in fifth grade from Kearney, and she said that all the drivers in Nebraska greet each other by lifting a finger. Her father used to do it and it confused everyone."

Her expression relaxed when he grinned.

"That's exactly the kind of stuff we need to focus on," he replied.

She shifted, happy to see him smile.

"We need at least three code words," Edward said.

"Why three?"

"One for a person we've recognized or a person we suspect may have recognized you, a second—"

"Foxglove," she said.

"A what?"

"Foxglove," she repeated. "It's a plant. Agatha Christie used it as poison in some of her books, and since that's the only thing we have in common, I thought…"

She hesitated, feeling stupid.

"Never mind."

"No, it's good. I like it. I was just surprised by how quickly you came up with that."

She shifted. "I've thought about code words."

He eyed her. "Okay, since we're going with Christie, we need a second one for escape."

"Morris Cowley?"

"Isn't that a car?"

"Not just any car, Christie's car."

"It's a mouthful. Mousetrap?"

"I love it, but isn't it too… obvious?"

"Ratchett?"

"Orient Express? I like it. And the last one?"

"For when we suspect our lives might be in danger."

"I don't know. Winterbrook?"

"What's there?"

"It's where Christie died, I think."

"Winterbrook it is. Do you remember all of them?"

"Foxglove for recognition, Ratchett for escape, Winterbrook for danger."

"Very good," he answered. "We'll start going over all our backup plans tomorrow or on Sunday. Do you have any questions or concerns for now?"

"I'll let you know."

She spent the rest of the evening reading on the couch, distracting herself with problems other than her own, and he dutifully sat beside her, watching something on History. He kept the volume low. When it was half past nine, she put down her book and watched an old episode of _Modern Marvels_ with him.

"You don't have to keep me company," she said when the ending credits came on.

"I'm not," he replied. "Both of our bedrooms have windows pointing at the other houses. We're not about to give our neighbors something to talk about by having the lights on in both of them."

"I didn't realize. You can put the lights on in your bedroom and I'll never use lights in mine."

"No. If we're going to use yours if we have company, it won't make sense for me to use mine now. I'll read and watch whatever I want in the living room. It's not a problem. Unless—do you want to be on your own?"

"The only place I'm used to being alone is the bathroom. It's fine. Let's just… living together is going to be exhausting if we're worried about how entertained the other one is. Let's just do what we want and I'll tell you when what you want is a problem for me. Okay?"

"I'd like that."

She went to sleep at half past ten, and it was only when she was breathing in the strange detergent on her pillow did her stomach growl. They hadn't eaten dinner, but she didn't want to disturb him, so she hoped to fall asleep and have a bigger breakfast.

If only falling asleep were that easy.

She didn't get nightmares, not really. There was no story-line, nobody chasing her or torturing her or making her choose between people she cared about. No, she didn't get nightmares. She had feelings. That feeling before falling asleep, on the edge of slipping out of consciousness, she felt or imagined or believed a presence—her brother—to be where it wasn't, and she jerked awake. She didn't scream (that she knew of) but jerking awake ten times a night had become a tiresome routine.

She'd asked Edward to hold her hand last night, but it felt childish to sneak into his room and ask him to do just that. She didn't want him to think that she couldn't handle herself, so she hadn't mentioned it. Instead, she fell asleep, jerked awake, fell asleep and jerked awake. She tired herself even trying to sleep, and after the fifth try, she sneaked downstairs and hovered on Edward's doorway. The door was open, and she could hear his breathing as his exhales blew against the pillow. Hesitating, she stood there for a while, feeling protected by his presence.

The ruffling of a plastic bag woke him. He sat up, taking the gun from his bedside table before going to the hallway. The red light of the security alarm blinked at him.

"Hello, Edward. Shooting me is not going to help our neighbors think we're a happily married couple."

He'd never heard anyone, not even his colleagues, sound quite as blasé when faced with a loaded gun. He lowered it.

"I'm sorry."

"It's okay." Her voice was gentle. "I'm glad you're careful, but it's just me."

Even in the dark, he felt naked standing in the doorway in his boxer-briefs, so he returned to his room, pulled on a T-shirt, and put his gun back on his bedside table. He joined her in the kitchen.

"Couldn't sleep?"

"I got hungry."

"I'm sorry, I forgot about dinner. Do you want me to make something?"

"I'm 22, not 12. I'm sorry I woke you up, but now that you know I'm not Jacob, you can go back to sleep."

Ignoring her, he opened the fridge. "Omelet?"

"I'm serious."

"So am I. I'm going to make one anyway, so… omelet?"

He turned on the lights above the electric range, and saw the hesitation on her face.

"One egg? Two?"

"Two is fine," she replied, eating her sandwich as she watched him break eggs and gather eggshells with a single hand. "You're a good man."

It was almost child-like, her observation, but he smiled at her before resuming to his task at hand.

"What's our alarm code?"

"It's 2308."

She listened to the sounds of the quiet house, a clock in the hallway, and a dog in the distance. It felt silly to think that a random house like this could offer any sort of protection against her brother, one who had the connections to escape a maximum security prison.

It wouldn't, of course, offer protection for long. But maybe long enough.

"I'm sorry I was short with you, earlier. I… it wasn't you I was mad at."

"I know," he said, voice low, glancing at her and wondering if she'd open up to him in the darkness of the night.

"How did your father feel about your major?"

Her lips twitched. "He found it ironic."

"A crime lord whose daughter goes to study High Technology Crime in Forensic Science… I can only imagine."

"He thought it was brilliant. He thought it would be funny to show his face at my undergrad graduation. He didn't, of course, that would've been stupid. But he joked about it all the time."

She pulled her lower lip between her teeth, and it twitched. She averted her eyes.

"How do you make the distinction?"

"What distinction?"

"How do you learn Forensic Studies and then go home to your father?"

"I didn't say I went home to my father. I haven't lived with him for seven years."

"Okay, but… you spoke to him. You spent time with him. You told me he was one of the two people you trusted with your life. How do you stay on the right side of the law, growing up the way you did?"

"Am I, though? Am I on the right side of the law?"

His eyes narrowed as he looked at her. He shared his omelet between them, gave her share to her, and sat down.

"Are you telling me I shouldn't trust you?"

"No."

"Are you unsure about whether or not you should trust me?"

"No."

"Then what are you saying?"

"Nothing. You think my father is the root of all evil and I don't agree with you."

"You cooperated with the DEA _under his nose._ You did it for _two_ years. You hacked into his computer, and some of his employees', in a way that Whitlock could _barely_ understand, and you're telling me that all that time, he was daddy dearest to you?"

"Fuck you, Edward." She stood up. "I'm gonna go to bed."

"Isabella…" His tone was warning and pleading at the same time.

She stopped at the doorway. "Thanks for the omelet."

He could hear her quiet steps as she walked upstairs. Was it progress to manage to get her angry? Was it paranoid of him to doubt her loyalty?

He turned off the lights and went to bed.


	5. 328 Washington Street

…

 **Emma Matthews**  
by Anton M.

 **Chapter 5:** **328 Washington St** **reet**

…

He woke up at 9:16 AM, shaved, got dressed, and found the T-shirt he'd loaned to her folded on a chair. He put in his contact lenses. A single candle was lit on top of a plate in the middle of the kitchen table and Isabella was leaning over a notebook, writing furiously. He was close enough to see hair fall away from the back of her neck, and she'd changed her tattoo. A red tulip with black edges disappeared behind her hair when she turned her head.

Her eyes were swollen.

"Morning," she said, nodding.

"Good morning," he replied, opening the fridge and taking out butter and milk. "What would you like for breakfast?"

"You don't have to cook for me."

"I'm not. I'm cooking for myself. So, preference? Bacon? Porridge? Cereal?"

"You were supposed to be a picky eater." She stopped, eyeing him. "You don't seem all that picky to me."

"I hate take-out," he revealed, hoping to get her in a better mood. "I hate most of what other people cook. Ergo, I cook. I like cooking."

She nodded, locked eyes with him, and ripped out a page of whatever she'd written or drawn. She crumpled it and threw it on the counter, where six crumpled balls of paper formed a warped line.

"Am I allowed to ask?"

"I think I'd like cereal today," she replied. "Thank you."

He put two boxes of cereal on the table, poured himself a bowl, and waited, eating and watching her. A minute or two later, she crumpled another piece of paper and sighed, rubbing her face. She looked up.

"Swimming is who I am, Edward. There aren't enough words for how that helps me. I don't know how to cope without swimming."

He lowered his eyes.

"Don't look like that," she continued. "It's not your fault. I'm having a bad day and I'm sorry."

"It's okay."

She eyed the row of crumpled paper, sighing. "It's my mom's birthday today. I'm writing a letter to her."

He put down his spoon, pausing. She'd lost her mother when she was fifteen—seven years ago, now that he thought about it—to suicide. He couldn't imagine losing his own mother, no matter how old he was going to be when it happened. Hopefully very, very old.

He didn't blame her for the bad mood. In fact, considering all the circumstances, it was a miracle she wasn't tearing apart the room. He wouldn't have blamed her if she did.

"It's something I do every year," she said, tearing at the edges of a blank piece of paper.

He wished he knew how to comfort her. If he'd gotten to know her any better at this point, he would've hugged her, but he didn't know how she would like it when they didn't even know each other all that well, especially since he'd pushed her last night. So he reached out a hand and squeezed hers, and she gripped his hand tightly.

She pressed her lips together.

"You're a good man."

It was that same simple comment from last night, and for whatever reason, it touched him. He almost told her that shopping could wait, that they could stay in today, but maybe letting her stay would do her more harm than good. So, he made her destroy her crumpled letters before they drove to Milwaukee to buy some clothes and necessities. Isabella read a book about Nebraska on the way, not saying much, and he didn't bother her. He had questions, of course, many of them, and he still had doubts about her loyalty, but not enough to believe her to fake being this upset.

The tattoo raised questions, but she didn't say a word when he told her to cover it with a scarf.

She didn't dwell on decisions. She chose black and green pants, colors and styles she didn't usually go for, and he hadn't dared to hope for her to be so cooperative. She made it easy. So much so, in fact, that when she was browsing a store, Edward saw pair of pajamas so suitable for her that he bought them.

She sneaked up on him as he was paying for them.

"Buying me sexy lingerie?"

He smiled.

"The sexiest," he answered, thanking the salesclerk before pulling her close to him. He offered her the bag as they left the store.

"I don't really care all that much about which T-shirt you bought for yourself."

"It's for you."

She took the pajamas out of the bag, and her smile felt a little shy but happy, too. The pajamas were pink, with penguins.

"They're not red, but…"

"They're perfect," she replied, putting them back in the bag and keeping her voice low. "Penguins are Emma's favorite birds."

"And yours?"

He spoke in her ear, voice barely audible, and he knew that Isabella understood what he was really asking—did Jacob know about penguins?

" _Not_ penguins," she replied with the slightest of smiles. Squeezing her shoulder, he made eye contact with her, and he was glad to see that shopping had distracted her a little. But as they ate lunch at a place Edward picked, he noticed how uneasy she was. Her gaze kept flickering, her movements were jerky, and she kept looking in her lap and back up again.

"You okay, Emma?"

The hesitant smile she gave him didn't convince him, and he almost expected her to say one of the code words, but instead, she said, "Later."

It took fifteen minutes worth of driving back home for her to elaborate.

"I feel like a time bomb."

He waited as she wrapped arms around her legs, the way she tended to do, and rested her cheek on her knees, watching him. "I think Daniel's appearance did something to me. Being in close proximity with that many people, it feels like anyone can tap me on the shoulder and turn out to be an old teacher or a classmate or someone my dad knew… It feels so easy. It _is_ easy."

While he was glad that she'd started to realize the scale of the danger she was in, the last thing he wanted was for her to feel unsafe.

"I will protect you. We'll be credible in our story, but I will protect you."

"I know." She rubbed her shins, back and forth, and sighed. "Tell me about your mother."

Under any normal—Witness Protection—circumstances, he would've refused, but they had to grow to trust each other, and he couldn't expect her to trust him, magically, out of the blue. He had to be the person she could trust. Even if he made up a background for his mother, it didn't feel fair to lie to her, not today.

"I bet she's amazing," she continued, looking out of the window.

"Why do you think that?"

She shrugged, and her words, again, felt so simple and hit him straight in the heart. "She's raised you to be so kind."

He looked over at her, and he was sure, at that moment, that regardless of her loyalty, under all the apparent numbness, she had a big, fragile heart and a lot of pain to deal with, all on her own.

"Thank you."

"Just making an observation."

He hadn't expected to start talking about his life, the real one without an unfamiliar surname, but he knew, then, that for him to know (some) details of her life and a brief overview, he had to respond in kind.

"My mother is strict. Or, she used to be, when my sister and I were kids. She's a huge fan of the Philadelphia Eagles, never missed a game. She loves puzzles. For years, she's put together a thousand-piece or two-thousand piece puzzles until last Christmas, my sister and I got her one with five thousand pieces. She's been working on it ever since."

"Did she ever ground you?"

"Oh, yeah."

He didn't expect her to shut her eyes and smile, as if in memory, before she started observing the scenery.

"What was yours like?" he asked.

"Suicidal."

It was a strange, morbid comment, and when he turned to look at her, she held his gaze. Her expression was strange, exhausted and sad but brave, too.

"I'm sorry. I've spent too much time with my roommate." She looked uncomfortable, but she didn't share anything else, and it wasn't the right time to ask.

Isabella fiddled with the end of a string on her shirt and continued, "Is your mom sad that you can't talk to her often?"

"She knows that I love what I do. I do keep in contact, just not when I'm undercover."

"And how often is that?"

"This is my third time."

She eyed him. "I thought you'd say tenth or something."

"It's not usual to go undercover with the witness. It does happen, as you can tell, but usually my job involves protecting and preparing the witness, helping them find a job, convincing them that the choice they made was the right one… things that I can do under my own name. But since I knew this was what I wanted to do, I've kept myself out of the social networks, and that makes things easier. My sister thinks I'm a luddite."

"I bet you haven't done anything to disprove that impression."

"I joke about doing paperwork for my job so that she wouldn't worry, and I sometimes do spend my days doing just that, but rarely. I'm usually out in the field."

"In danger."

"Yes. Not the way you are, but in danger nonetheless."

"It's not often that the brother of a witness escapes a maximum security prison and puts a hit out on the witness, huh?"

He looked at her, sharply. The smile she gave him felt defeated.

"Are you surprised?" she asked.

"We considered it, of course. How sure are you?"

"I might not be his best buddy, but I know my brother. I'm positive."

"Does Carlisle know?"

"I'm sure he does."

She eyed the passing scenery as if they were talking about the weather.

"Was Whitlock right to doubt you?"

" _Now_ you decide you don't trust me?" she asked dryly. "Thanks, Edward."

"How can you always remain so calm?"

She didn't reply, but he pressed on.

"Did you know Jacob would escape?"

"If I said no, would you believe me?"

"Can I?" he asked. "Believe you?"

She sighed. "I knew he would try."

"How?"

She frowned, and he thought she'd get mad at him, but instead, she let out a sigh.

"I understand that it's hard for you to trust me. I get that. I know you said you did, and I said you can and should, but every conversation we have seems to lead to trust." She straightened her legs before digging out a bunch of small papers from her pocket. She held out her palm to Edward, and when they got stuck in traffic, he observed the contents.

She held out all her unused fake tattoos to him.

"It wasn't hard to put them from one pocket to another, but they're not a signal. They're just a bunch of fake tattoos." She put them back in her pocket. "You're not far off, though. If my mom were alive, they would be. When I was seven, one of her sisters died and she became depressed. I mean, she was pretty melancholy by nature, but some days were worse than others, some events pushed her more than others. When she was…. down, she didn't want to talk, and she got really annoyed that I did because I was worried and, you know, I didn't understand. I was just a kid. So I got her to agree that she'd put a sticker on the back of her hand to show how she felt. So I wouldn't annoy her by asking.

"Together, we made up a code for each color, and the dominant color on the sticker would tell me how she felt. The picture or the shape is not important. The color is. Stickers turned into fake tattoos, and because she was so… her, whenever something big happened, we'd use those tattoos. Jacob learned what each color meant but he thought it was stupid and never used them. I did. I still do. So it's not a big fancy signal to whoever you think I'm conspiring with, it's just a tattoo. I can wear it on the inside of my thigh if you don't believe it's not a signal."

He thought about all her tattoos.

"So the red is for…"

"Grief."

"And the black is for…"

She stared at him, like she was about to huff, but she didn't. She appeared to be very, very tired.

"Acceptance."

The hearts he'd seen the first time they met had been dark red, but those tulips on the back of her neck had black edges. It was her journey, in a way, and he hadn't expected her answer to make so much sense, at least in her world. There was, of course, the chance that she was lying to him, but it would have to be a hell of a lie to come up with on the spot.

"I'm sorry," he said.

"No problem."

"Can I ask a personal question?"

She nodded.

"Did you find out what pushed your mother to… take that step?"

She absentmindedly scraped her fingernails. "She left a note."

"Did it have anything to do with your father?"

"Yes," she snapped. "My father was a big, bad wolf, a presence _so_ evil death itself was afraid of him. Would that make you happy?"

"I'm just trying to understand."

"Whatever my father did or didn't do had nothing to do with her suicide, I assure you. _So_ sorry to disappoint."

"My purpose isn't to upset you, Isabella," he said softly. He hesitated, brushing the fake leather of the steering wheel with his thumb, deep in thought. She'd given him a piece of her, he should respond in kind. An eye for an eye.

"My mother is in a wheelchair."

She looked at him, but he didn't turn his head.

"I was a sophomore in college when she fell off the counter trying to reach for pack of cinnamon. My sister called me in panic, but I didn't believe her. I couldn't imagine that something so stupidly simple could break your back. It was November, I think. I took a sabbatical so that they would have money as we adjusted. We had to move, we had to make sure none of the doorways had a step and renovate the ones that did, stuff that nobody thinks about on a daily basis. My mother hated herself for taking me away from college. But we adjusted, eventually."

"Where was your father?"

He hesitated. "It's… complicated."

"Is it ever," she replied dryly, but, unlike him, she didn't push. Neither did she accuse him of doing so.

"Does she still teach?"

"Yes, of course."

"That's pretty incredible. What does your sister do?"

"She's a hairdresser."

"How old is she?"

"27. Her name is Tanya."

"Ah, who would've thought. We have something in common."

"You have a sister named Tanya?" he asked, and she returned his smile in silence. She told him a few things she'd learned about Nebraska, and talking about the state seemed a little more natural for her than the last time.

Having pulled up in front of the garage, they had to take several trips from the car to the house, and Isabella was pressing a bag against her chest as she caught sight of a couple walking up to her. The man, blonde haired, limping, and slightly chubby, was accompanied by a pregnant woman with light brown hair holding a tray. Both smiled. Edward, having noticed them, put down his bags and walked back to where Isabella was standing.

"Sorry to bother you," the man said and held out his hand to Edward. "Jodie insisted on being neighborly and bringing you some cake. If left up to me, I would have politely ignored you both. But you do what your better half wants." He chuckled. "I'm Isaac Lemaire. This is my girlfriend, Jodie."

"Indeed you do." Edward grinned. "Anthony Matthews, it's a pleasure."

Edward took Isabella's bag under his arm and put his arm around her as she shook hands with the couple.

"Emma," she said. "Anthony's wife. It's lovely to meet you both."

Jodie, shy-looking, held out her tray toward Isabella. "I made apricot almond clafouti for you."

"Thank you. It sounds fancy."

"It's to die for," Isaac said, kissing his fingertips.

Isabella smiled. "It smells delicious. That's very kind of you."

"No problem, no problem," Isaac replied. "Anyway, Jodie's birthday is coming up, and we thought we'd invite you. It's on Tuesday at six PM. You know, drink some beer, get to know each other."

"Oh, we wouldn't want to impose," Isabella said.

"No, no," Jodie said in a quiet voice. "You're not. Please consider it."

"What do you think, sweetie pie?" Edward asked, nuzzling her hair. Isabella, looking up at him, narrowed her eyes.

"Sure, _buttercup_. Sounds like fun. If they don't mind. Do you need us to bring anything? Anthony makes a killer runza."

"Runza?"

"It's a Nebraskan dish," Isabella replied.

"Ah, you guys are from Nebraska, huh? An old schoolmate of mine lives there, in the western part, Scotts—Scotland something?"

He looked at them, expecting an answer, and it was one of the times when Isabella's memory for facts and figures paid off, because she guessed, "Scottsbluff?"

He snapped his finger, smiling. "Yeah, that's the one!"

"This dish you're talking about," Jodie asked. "Is it salty or sweet?"

"Salty," Isabella answered. "It's a rectangular bread pocket with pork and cabbage and all sorts of delicious things inside."

Jodie looked between the couple, hesitating. "It sounds very good. I mean, if—if you don't mind… You don't have to bring presents or anything…"

"No worries, Anthony loves cooking," Isabella replied, placing her hand against his stomach, looking up. "Don't you, snuggle muffin?"

The edge of Edward's lips twitched as he was trying hard not to laugh, but the couple in front of them grinned.

"Great! That's settled then. We'll see you guys on Tuesday." Isaac leaned closer, lowering his voice. "We have two little kids in the house. Dress casual and be prepared to care about movies you wish you'd never heard of."

Edward snickered and Isabella grinned. Jodie and Isaac, across the street, pointed at their house, mouthing '22'. Isabella and Edward finished bringing their stuff in before she took a towel off the cake, cut two pieces, and started eating one of them. Leaning against a counter, Edward watched her smile and push a piece toward him. He refused.

"I think I should start wearing make up," she said.

"Why?"

"Jodie noticed my age. You look about thirty, maybe, while I look barely eighteen. I think it would be smart for me to look older."

He tilted his head on the side. "It's up to you."

"Okay. I might try. But I'm not a fan, there's never really been a point when I'm in a pool twice a day, you know?" She blinked. "Past tense, I mean. _Was_ in a pool."

Her words tugged at his heart, but she didn't look up from her cake.

"I've never made runza."

"I figured," she replied. "I'll help you if you'd like. We can find a recipe, and if we screw it up, you can always claim that I disturbed your cooking mojo. How hard can it be?"

They spent a better part of the afternoon and evening sorting out the stuff they'd bought from Mayfair Mall. Isabella wrote a letter to her mother that she was satisfied with, and he witnessed her burn it in the sink. She made eye contact with him, as if to apologize, but he nodded and left her to her unorthodox traditions.

He made sweet potato and spinach quesadillas, hoping to cheer her up somewhat, and she was reading a book with the TV muted in the background as he brought her a plate. She narrowed her eyes, surely wanting to remind him that he didn't have to cook for her, but her expression changed once she saw what he made. She didn't tear up, but he was met with a vulnerable, shy smile, and he knew he'd done the right thing. He brought himself a plate and sat next to her, happy to see her smile.

"How come Beth acted like she knew you and yet she thinks your name is Anthony Matthews?"

"She spent two months in Baltimore a while back. Some of the Marshals build backup plans in the form of trustworthy people whose trust you gain but to whom you never reveal your real name. She's known me for three months by the name Anthony."

"You've played an Anthony from Nebraska for three months?"

"Yes and no. We were preparing for another undercover operation before you came along."

"How do you know you can trust her?"

"How do I know I can trust you?"

Chewing, Isabella neither blinked nor replied to him.

"Think of her as an uninvolved third party, a friend of sorts. We have much bigger problems to worry about."

She hummed, closing her book on the table and turning up the volume of the TV. Maybe in an attempt to avoid seeing her brother's face, she'd picked Travel Channel.

"So there's no Walmart in this small town?"

"There's one in Jefferson and one in Whitewater, but no."

"Well, isn't that riveting," she replied. "Tell me there's a library and I'm allowed to use it."

"There is, actually. Dwight Foster Library."

"But am I allowed to use it?"

"I see no harm in it."

She smiled, but before it could grow into a full-blown grin, he said, "You can't rent out books on anything your brother knows your interested in. No programming, no forensics, no cyber crime or whatever it is that he knows you like."

"Oh, come on." She huffed. "Tell me you're kidding."

"I'm sorry," he replied, squeezing her forearm to get her to look at him, to show her that he was sincere in his apology. "I am. But you _know_ he will look for patterns in your behavior. I know you do."

"But I can't pretend to be fascinated by… fishing or astrology, or… interior design. You can give me a hundred magazines about that and the most fascinating part of them would be folding paper planes."

He smiled.

"I didn't say you have to pretend to like something you don't. I'm not going to force you to read about fishing if it bores you. You're free to read fiction, preferably books you haven't read before. If you have a favorite you can't live without, we'll buy it. But it can't leave a trace in the library."

"Okay." She relaxed somewhat. "What if I spend my day at the library, reading a book I like?"

"As long as I'm there with you, that's fine."

"Agatha Christie?"

He paused, thinking.

"Maybe, but I'd feel better if we rented the books from the new acquaintances we make or bought them. I assume it isn't a secret to Jacob you like her books."

She closed her eyes, exhaling, and didn't look happy. "It's not."

"As long as we're careful, we're fine. If you want to spend your time doing something that leaves a trace, please confirm it with me. Your life is not a toy to be played with."

Her expression told him that that's exactly how she felt, but she nodded. "I will," she said in a sad, low voice. She ate the rest of her quesadillas in silence and put down the empty plate, eyeing him. She rubbed her forearms, back and forth, and sent him an awkward, frail smile.

"Thank you. I didn't expect to spend time with anyone who—who cares, and, thank you. I'll never forget it." She looked at the last quesadilla on his plate. "You're a gifted chef. I've only met one other man whose cooking has been as good as yours."

"Who?"

She hesitated. "The _evil_ _entity_ in my life you keep attacking."

"Your father?"

"That's what I said, didn't I?"

"Isabella…"

"Don't attack him, just tonight, okay? Please. I get your point."

"I'm not trying to attack him."

"It doesn't matter. Let's just, can we agree not to discuss him after a good meal?"

"All right," he replied, his expression softening. "It's not a problem to make sure you're safe, Isabella. As long as you communicate your problems with me, I promise we'll get out of this mess, unscathed."

He spent the rest of the evening on the phone with Carlisle, and put him on speaker phone once Jacob came up in the conversation. They had five different leads from four different states, all dead ends. The price for his capturing certainly contributed to people believing that the hooded shadow they saw one night could've been him. Isabella remained unsurprised by the lack of leads, and they spent hours discussing the backup scenarios in which Edward and Isabella would assume another identity on the go. The driving licenses and passports for Mr. and Mrs. Cooper were to be kept with them at all times with a wad of cash and a loaded gun.

Isabella didn't say much during the briefing. For most of the night, Edward stood gripping the back of the couch she was sitting on, and she rested her head against the armrest, staring at the ceiling, sharing an occasional word or two, almost looking bored. By the time Edward disconnected the call, three hours had passed, and he appeared quite tense.

"Are you okay?" she asked, turning off the TV that had been on mute. Standing up, she stretched.

"Fine. I think I'm going to—" He cracked his knuckles and neck, wiping his face. "I'll be in the gym if you need me."

He set their security alarm, got changed, and disappeared upstairs, leaving Isabella in the living room. She took her book and turned off the lights, skipping every second step as she climbed after him. For the past 22 years, she had preferred to be alone more often than it had been a viable option, either because of her father's concern or because of her paranoid attitude toward her brother (or maybe not that paranoid after all, in hindsight). But she had always seized the opportunity to be left alone with her own thoughts and feelings, to her own means. It was only after her brother tried to strangle her that she no longer sought to be alone, and as much as her need annoyed her, being alone, at the moment, came with nerves, twitchiness, an uncharacteristic tendency to keep checking the door. Not always, of course, but often enough.

Some days were harder than others.

She didn't panic, or at least she hadn't, yet. She was fine, alone. But being alone, on days like today, in the dark, in the bedroom—circumstances that coincided with those she'd been under, two weeks ago—it felt a little too much, a little too soon, and so, she found her way to the gym room, hesitating on the doorway. Edward wore shorts and a T-shirt, beating the punching bag with boxing gloves. He hadn't broken a sweat, yet, but his face was focused, stance confident, and she was sure he'd done this before. It came too naturally to him.

Listening to his breathing and watching his muscles flex, she regretted that she'd never learned how to properly beat anyone in contact sports. She knew how to spot a hidden gun, how to load it, unload it, she knew a lot about them, and aiming wouldn't be a problem. She was a decent shot. But she should've pushed her father to let her learn MMA, like her brother had. In fact, if Jacob hadn't been semi-high or semi-drunk (or both), he could've, and would've, killed her with a single kick. It was by sheer luck that the night he found them, he'd been in a questionable state of mind.

But her father had thought MMA to be too dangerous (and manly) for his little girl and only taught her a few tricks from Silat from Malaysia and Muai Thai from Thailand. They were decent, and dangerous, those tricks, but she'd never properly practiced, and she got rusty. She should've practiced. She should've been ready. Instead, she spent her time polishing her programming skills and hacking into computers.

Edward had spotted her looking at him, and stopped.

"Did you need anything?"

She didn't expect to feel shy, being caught observing him, but she did. She felt embarrassed. Isabella, once again, felt as if she were asking him to hold her hand, which was ridiculous. She was a grown woman. She didn't need his company.

But she didn't want to spend her night in her bedroom, wondering.

"Would you mind if I read my book here?" she asked, quietly, eyes pleading him not to push her for answers.

If he was surprised, he didn't show it.

"It's not a problem."

She entered the room, lit a lamp by the wall, and lay on the blue exercise mat. His rhythmic punching, like his breathing, calmed her, and she found herself staring at him when he took off his sweaty shirt, revealing a lean, wide-shouldered back to her. The more she got to know him, the more attractive he seemed, and she felt lucky to get to know him a bit for the next… however long.

She wondered if he would teach her how to punch like that, or if he knew any martial arts. Self-defense, for sure. But instead of asking, she tore her eyes away from the man and returned to her book. She was more than okay being in his company for now.

The next day, with a runza recipe in hand, Edward and Isabella hunted for the ingredients at a local grocery store, Festival Foods. The sun was out, and it was a busy Sunday afternoon, but they found everything they needed before Isabella left Edward in the hallway as she found a bathroom. She minded her business, she didn't cry, but still she waited in front of the mirror for a girl, a woman, for someone to arrive in the bathroom. Finally, after she was sure she'd have to postpone her call, a girl her age entered the bathroom.

Isabella decided to go for English. No patterns.

"Excuse me, Miss? I lost my phone, I think it was stolen, but I have a worried little sister who was expecting me half an hour ago. Could I use your phone for a second? I'll be brief."

The girl looked her from the top of her head to her shoes.

"I'm sure the customer service will help you," she said, entering a stall.

Isabella hunched, taking a breath, ready to leave the bathroom, before a middle-aged woman started to apply make-up in front of the mirror. Isabella recited the same story, hoping she looked as young as she felt, and the woman offered her phone to Isabella quite dismissively.

Smiling in gratitude, she dialed a number, and almost held her breath as she waited for Rosalie to pick up.

"Rosalie."

"Oh, Maggie, dear! I finally caught you. I'm so sorry I didn't call you, I lost my phone. How do you feel?"

"Does he trust you?"

"Yes, yes, you need to drink more, Maggie. Tea is good for you. Will you be okay on your own for another half an hour?"

"Ninth, noon. 15205 West Greenfield Avenue. Left entrance, first bathroom to the right. Flintstones."

"Ice cream, all right. Anything else?"

"We can't track him," Rosalie replied. "They're good, but they're not you. You need to convince him to give you a computer ASAP. You're the only one who's managed this in the past. It has to be you."

"Aw, honey, you know I can't. I can't, I have to meet auntie Cate first. She doesn't have the doctor's permission to leave the hospital."

The girl who'd refused to give Isabella her cell phone looked irritated, but she left, and the woman letting her use her phone couldn't look more disinterested.

"I know, but… use your magic. You have more sob stories than Peter Parker and Batman combined. Use them."

"I'll see what I can do." Isabella made a kissing sound. "Love you too. I'll be home soon."

Edward seemed bored, looking at some postcards outside a flower shop. He smiled when she returned.

"I think I have a stomach bug," Isabella said without giving him the chance to ask. "Do you think we could stop by a drug store?"

"Sure thing, Emma." Concerned, he put his arm around her shoulder. "You okay, though?"

"Fine," she replied, smiling. "Must've been all that fancy-name cake you never tasted."


	6. Hallway

…

 **Emma Matthews**  
by Anton M.

 **Chapter 6: Hallway**

…

Edward couldn't quite put his finger on the reason, but Isabella's reactions and character continued to puzzle him. He could write off her red eyes and long bathroom break at the airport as a break-down because he knew by now that if she let out any emotion, she didn't do it around others (not without wanting to). But the second time on Sunday, he knew she had barely nibbled on that cake, and he hadn't seen her drink anything. She didn't act any different nor had she cried, yet he did take notice of the length of her bathroom break.

He was not worried enough to tell Carlisle, but he kept a keen eye on her.

Yes, some of the things she did didn't exactly inject confidence in him. But then, she made those little compliments about his personality, and he could swear she meant them. Not only that, but she agreed not to leave any trace for Jacob. She hated it, but she understood. So where did that leave him? Should he trust her? If she found a way to do something behind his back or contact anyone, she wouldn't do it in a way Jacob could trace, Edward was certain of it. Her fear felt real. But if she did contact a potential whoever, what purpose would that serve if she was on his side?

He had two theories. One, if she wasn't to be trusted, she had an ulterior motive he had yet to figure out, and two, if she was to be trusted, Isabella did not trust _him_ to keep her safe.

Edward considered himself good at reading people, so it irritated him to have to play nice without pulling any real answers out of her. It was a delicate blade to dance on, to follow through with his comment not to pry yet observe her closely enough to get a feel of her intentions.

He hadn't, yet, and that annoyed him.

For the following few days, they settled into a pattern of separate routines that overlapped in the evenings. He didn't know how early she woke up, but he often found her sitting in the kitchen, writing strings of codes that might've been Python or C++ or Java. He didn't know and she didn't explain. It crossed his mind that she was planning a less than noble way of betraying him in her programming scribbles, but when he voiced his concerns, she told him to take a picture and send it to Whitlock.

So he did.

Except he sent eight.

Three hours later, Whitlock replied to him.

 _Looks like a rough outline of a computer game. Keep me posted._

 _Should we give her a computer?_

 _No._

He could hear Isabella working out upstairs.

 _She's a freelance web designer, Whitlock. Hard to play one without a computer._

 _I don't care. Put a gauze around her wrists and tell people she has CTS. I'm sure she's more than adequate to give advice because that's all she will be doing._

 _Aren't you a little paranoid?_

And was Edward the person to ask?

 _I don't want to hear it._

 _I'm still going to give her a cell phone for emergencies as agreed._

Whitlock didn't answer.

Two minutes to six PM on a rainy Tuesday, Isabella rang the doorbell of the 22nd Fifth Street. Kids' screaming became louder until a boy in an angry birds T-shirt opened the door and blinked at them. Edward squeezed Isabella's hand, and both smiled.

"Who're you?"

"Hello," Isabella replied, crouching. "We are your new neighbors. My name is Emma."

She offered her hand.

"Marc!"

The boy turned but didn't move as Isaac came to the door, smiling. Isabella straightened.

"Hey, guys, come on in! I see you've met Marc. Our older one, Raoul, is causing trouble somewhere, I'm sure. Come on in, come on in."

Everyone, it turned out, included Jodie's brother's family, Benjamin and Angela Cheney with their one-year-old daughter Karen. Benjamin was quite short and had the coloring of his sister while Angela was taller, had brown hair, and seemed similar to Jodie in her quiet demeanor. They lived four blocks away.

After introductions were made, Edward's runza found itself an honorable place on the table and the kids were bribed with candy to sit still for five seconds. Both the Lemaire and Cheney families were pleasant enough—normal—and the conversation flowed smoothly. Isabella nodded in all the right places, asked all the right questions and talked about her job like a professional, but Edward could tell she struggled to feign interest in Benjamin's occupation, horticultural therapy.

Not that it mattered. She only smiled in embarrassment when Angela teased her husband about the unidirectional conversation.

But no matter how easily an evening like this could go, Edward was prepared for slip-ups. A wrong name, an error in backstory or an unconvincing job could damage their integrity, and no matter how many times he'd done this, no matter how prepared a witness was, they always had a hiccup. Edward wasn't afraid of mistakes as long as they were smoothed in a way that raised as few questions as possible, but he was prepared.

They had the predictable discussion about how Anthony and Emma met and how he proposed, and repeated the rehearsed facts with details they filled in on the go. Isabella knew what to say. It was Isaac, ushering his oldest kid, Raoul, to change shirts after he dirtied one, who took a sip of beer before eyeing the couple.

"You thinking of getting yourselves one of these?"

Isabella and Edward locked eyes.

"We can't conceive."

"We don't want kids."

Awkward silence followed and eyes flickered between their faces. Isabella paled, staring at Edward, before he made a snap decision and leaned close to her ear. "I'll handle this."

"It's a… difficult subject for us," he said, entwining his fingers with Isabella's. "I forgot that we agreed to tell people we don't want kids, when the truth is… we're trying, but it's… hard, and we're really… it's a lot to deal with."

"Sorry, man," Isaac answered. "I didn't know. Didn't mean to pry."

"It's okay," Edward replied, looking in his lap and running his fingers over Isabella's hand in a way that made it clear to everyone that they were holding hands. He was surprised to see her eyes shimmering with tears, and if he didn't suspect an ability to cry on command, they would've brought him to his knees. She looked heartbroken. It annoyed him to see her cry so easily because who was to say she didn't play with Edward's emotions if she felt like it? But it also worried and awed him.

He shifted his chair closer to hers and put an arm on the back of her chair. Her eyes flickered between the people around the table.

"Would you excuse us for a moment," Edward said, standing and guiding Isabella to the living room where Raoul and Marc were building a tower out of boxes and toys. They looked up but decided to ignore the adults.

Isabella stared at Edward's chest. "I'm sorry."

"You don't have to apologize."

"I do. I should've let you speak."

He held her shoulders, staring in her eyes, before pulling her against his chest. It occurred to him that they could be seen from the kitchen, but it didn't really matter. He found no joy in her tears, fake or otherwise.

"You okay?"

She breathed in the scent of him. "M'hmm."

"We'll talk later."

Hand in hand, they returned to the kitchen.

"Sorry, guys," Isabella said. "We didn't mean to ruin the mood."

They were met with a chorus of noes and sympathetic looks as they sat.

"I know a couple who couldn't conceive for thirteen years, but the moment they gave up, the wife got pregnant," Angela said. "They were forty. You can't really force nature. It'll happen when it happens."

"Definitely," Isaac replied. "You're both so young and healthy, I bet you'll miss all the sleep you won't get once you have four of these rascals around!"

Everyone smiled.

Even though Isabella seemed distracted, the rest of the evening passed with no hiccups. It was ten PM when they left. Isabella kicked off her heels the moment they were home, switched on the lights and set a book she'd loaned from Isaac on a chest of drawers. Little raindrops shined in her hair.

Edward weighed the book in his hand.

" _Design Patterns_ by Erich Gamma, Richard Helm, Ralph Johnson and John Vlissides," he read before eyeing her. "They were willing to lend any book to you, and this is what you chose?"

She took it from him.

"It won't leave a trace. I did nothing wrong."

"I didn't say you did."

"The authors are called the Gang of Four."

"Do you want me to pretend to know what that means?"

She put the book back, but neither moved from the hallway. "I'd actually like to find _Gö_ _del, Escher, Bach_ by a man named Hofstadter. I'm half-way through that one."

He smiled. "If you're trying to include me in the conversation, you're failing miserably."

She put hands in the pockets of her high-waist skirt, and lowered her eyes. "I'm sorry that I messed up."

He crossed his arms but shrugged, leaning against the wall. "It happens."

"I'm smarter than that."

"It's not a matter of intelligence."

"I should've known better."

"I was equally at fault."

Isabella went the living room where she untucked her blouse and sat on the couch, curling legs underneath her. He got changed, and when he joined her, she'd turned on the TV. In the evenings, when he was no longer making calls and preparations, and after she'd finished working out or reading (or both), they tended to watch reruns of _Modern Marvels_ or _Mysteries at the Museum_ together. Tonight, _How It's Made_ was discussing marbles when Edward sat down.

"Why did you tell them we couldn't conceive?"

"It creates sympathy."

"I get that," she replied. "What's wrong with telling them we don't want kids?"

Edward took his time removing his contact lenses. When he put on his glasses, Isabella felt trapped by his gaze. He wore a T-shirt and blue sweatpants, and when he crossed his legs underneath him and faced her, leaning against the back of the couch, he felt young to her. Young, slightly geeky, and so very attractive.

He sighed.

"You're still so young," he said.

"I don't see how that's relevant."

"Okay," he replied. "Have you ever met a couple who doesn't want kids?"

She played with her fingers. "I've met couples without kids, but I've never considered it my business to ask why they didn't have any."

He tilted his head on the side, staring at her, and she squirmed under his gaze.

"That just means you're a good person."

She gave him a tight-lipped smile.

"Nevertheless, if you had asked, you would know it's an annoying, recurring topic for couples to be forced to justify their choice not to procreate. I have a close, long-time friend who's been in a relationship with the same woman for eleven years. Neither want kids, they've agreed not to have any, but even after all these years, during social events and at parties, they're made to explain and defend their position, and many acquaintances believe it's their duty to convince them otherwise."

"But… it's nobody's business."

"I'm glad you think so, but not everyone agrees."

"So you said it to protect me from having to justify myself?"

"In a way. They'll be too tactful to bring up the issue again, and with a small community like this, everyone will know that it's a sensitive subject for us by the end of the week."

She fiddled with the edge of her blouse. "Thank you."

"Not a problem," he replied. "As I said, I was equally at fault. But next time, if you decide to reply to a question we haven't prepared for, reach over and squeeze my forearm, start with a ' _well_ ,' or just start slow. Don't rush into answering if you're not sure about a response, okay? We're in this together."

Nodding, she shrugged off her cardigan.

"You were very convincing," he continued, eyeing her. "Good acting chops. If I didn't know you were acting, I would've been consoling you in a heartbeat. I don't think anyone has a shadow of doubt about how sensitive this topic is to us now."

He held her gaze.

"Do you manipulate with me this way, too?"

"What?"

"Do you manipulate with me this way, too?" he repeated.

"I don't…" she started, taken aback by his words. A few seconds passed before her eyes hardened and she scoffed. "Yeah, Edward. I faked my mother's suicide, and then I faked my father's murder, and I absolutely fake hating the fact that I can't even _be_ myself when my brother is _not even here_. Then I fake not being able to fucking _sleep_ without—"

She blinked.

"Without?"

His eyes were calm.

"Doesn't matter," she said, turning away.

He observed her. It wasn't that he wanted her to yell at him, but whenever she did, he understood her better. Her character, her emotions, those were real. Whatever other issues she had, she seemed upset by the implication of manipulating with his emotions, and he was relieved.

He turned to face the TV.

"I can sleep next to you if you want," he said.

"It's fine."

"You're not sleeping very well."

"What else is new."

"I don't mind helping you, Emma."

"I'm fine."

"But you must admit to needing help first."

"I'm fine."

"It's okay to need help."

"I'm _fine_."

"All right."

She narrowed her eyes at him, but didn't reply.

"Marshal Seth Varney will stay with you tomorrow from eight AM to four PM."

"Fine."

Half an hour later, Edward was too restless to fall asleep, and it was one AM when he checked the time.

He put aside his phone as he heard Isabella's footsteps coming downstairs. She stopped on his doorway. Curious to know what she was up to, he pretended to sleep. A quiet moment later, she walked up to his bed, and he could hear a faint click as she disconnected his phone from the charger. He sat up the moment she'd left the room.

Was she seriously going to call someone on his phone? He thought Isabella was smarter than that.

Quietly, he sneaked closer to the hallway, expecting to hear her whispers. He heard none, but the hallway ceiling was lit with the reflection from his phone. He waited a minute, two, five, but she made no sound. He stepped in the hallway.

Isabella was sitting on the floor, legs straight in front of her, leaning against the wall. She had a game, Bebbled, open on his phone, and she looked up when she heard him approaching. Their eyes locked.

"I'm sorry," she whispered, lowering her eyes to the phone. "I didn't mean to wake you."

She appeared undisturbed. She was wearing the ridiculous pink pajamas he'd bought her, and he stared at her, feeling the oddity of the situation. Did she really sneak downstairs to play on his phone or had she only put it on because she knew he was awake? Most of all, was he paranoid not to trust her? He went to his room to throw on a T-shirt and pants. Once he returned, he sat next to her on the floor, watching her play a game of Bebbled.

"Have you ever heard of Ludwig Wittgenstein?" she asked, not raising her eyes.

"Knowing you, it's probably some obscure programming genius."

She smiled.

"He was a philosopher from Austria. He dealt with the philosophy of math, logic, thinking and language. Many of his works were published after he died, and yes, he's been considered a genius by many contemporaries.

"He came from a rich but troubled family. Three of his five brothers committed suicide, and he contemplated it more than once. If you read his biography, you'll find that he and his siblings all had the potential to be geniuses, if sensitive and self-destructive. It's as if that kind of genius comes with a cost."

He watched her, waiting.

"Did you know that my mother was a mathematician?"

"I did, actually. She won the Abel Prize in 2007."

Surprised, she raised her eyes.

"You did your homework."

"I did," he replied. "Your mother was a remarkable woman."

She continued to play her game. "She was kind of a high-risk, high-reward person. She loved and hated people—they never induced apathy in her. She either put her heart and soul into math, or she spent her time contemplating the meaninglessness of it all. Her colleagues and students at the UNM either thought she was a genius or hated her lack of willingness to discuss anything lower than the level of Lehmer's and Legendre's conjectures. In the end, though, I think she wanted what I imagine Wittgenstein to have wanted."

"What's that?"

"To be understood."

Taken aback by her openness, he tried to figure out which questions he could ask that wouldn't make her feel defensive.

"How did you guys spend time together?"

"I think you can guess," she said with a wry smile.

"Math?"

She nodded. "I knew sixth grade math before I knew my abcs. My mom's version of a bed-time story was to give me a puzzle. Not literally, but, you know. A brain teaser. It was fun. She turned learning into a game, and I think that's part of the reason I never struggled at school even though it felt like I switched schools more than socks."

"Did she want you to become a mathematician?"

"Oh, no. Never. I think she wanted me to understand her, and showing me the beauty in math, her language, did that. I think she would've loved to see me get into programming, though."

She paused.

"My mom's father made big discoveries in virology and won many awards before committing suicide. He and my grandmother had four children, two girls and two boys. My mom's younger sister was claimed to be a violin prodigy before she died of mysterious reasons at the age of 15. Everyone knew she took her own life, but a pretense was kept for the sake of funerals. I was the one who found her."

"How old were you?"

"Seven."

Edward rested his elbows on his bent knees, not knowing what to say.

"I think my mom's family is a lot like Wittgenstein's. If they didn't commit suicide, they lived to become on top of their field."

"Do you consider yourself to be in that group?"

"Do I think I'm a genius?" she repeated, making eye contact with him before turning back to her game. "No."

"Half of the schools you went to wanted you to skip several grades."

"But I never did. My mother skipped four, and while she never explicitly said so, I know that she felt she never made friends because of it. So she never let me skip any grades."

"Do you think it's genetic?"

Done with the game, she put down his phone and turned off its light.

"I don't," she said. "But even if susceptibility to depression or genius is, in fact, heritable, I don't think I inherited either. I think upbringing is what matters."

The security alarm blinked at them from the end of the hallway, and he could see someone's lamp from across the street. The refrigerator hummed in the kitchen.

"I know you think I'm a cold fish," she said quietly, and he could now only see her silhouette.

"I've never thought that."

"You don't have to pretend. I've seen that I'm, at best, abnormal. But, a lot of who I am is how I've grown up, and in my short life, I've seen… more than I would have liked. When you have a childhood filled with playing a prison break game, learning McGyver-style tricks and seeing people whose moral compass points at the person with the most money… when you've found someone who has just committed suicide, twice, or walked into a crime scene before anyone even knows a murder has taken place… it changes you."

"I can't deny that I'm curious, but… you don't owe me an explanation."

"I know."

She drew knees closer to her chest and wrapped her arms around them.

"Why did you become a Marshal?

It might've been a tip of the iceberg, what she'd shared with him, but he knew that at this point, he couldn't refuse anything to her.

"My best friend in middle school confessed to being in Witness Protection after I'd known him for a year. By any Witness Protection standards, he shouldn't have told me, but I was fascinated. I was sworn to secrecy, and because my father was an—unpleasant character, the idea grew until I found myself making choices based on who they wanted. The idea of protecting people always appealed to me."

"Is that where boxing came from?"

"Where?"

"Your father."

He hesitated. "I didn't realize I was that transparent."

"Nasty father, boxing, protecting people… not that hard to tie together," she said. "Did he beat you?"

He side-eyed her. "I don't really believe in the whole cry-in-the-pillow psychology fix."

"Neither do I," she replied. "I only asked one straight-forward question."

"Yes," he answered.

"While drunk?"

"No," he said. "Very, very sober."

"What did he do?"

"He's a complicated man," he replied, remaining vague.

"I mean as a profession."

"Oh. He's a policeman."

She let out a short, humorless laugh, and he frowned at her.

"I'm sorry." Isabella turned, crossing legs underneath her as she faced him. "It's just… for eleven years, my father was number three on FBI's most wanted list, and I know you think he's the root of all evil, but he actually kept his job very separate from who he was as a person. He never tortured people, nor did he lay a finger on me or my brother. Yours, now, is the honorable policeman supposed to be an exemplary citizen for us all, but… well, see where I'm getting at?"

The edge of his mouth twitched, and he put his palm on top of hers on his forearm. She squeezed it, and he squeezed back.

"For what it's worth, I am sorry," she whispered. "How bad was it?"

"I know you just shared what you did, but can we not go there? Not tonight."

She sat on her legs, scooting a little closer. "Of course."

"How did you know my name?"

"What?"

"When we met, you knew who I was. How?"

"Jacob is not the only one with connections."

"Carlisle?"

"I'm sneakier than that."

"You're not going to tell me?"

"Not tonight."

"Fair enough."

She let go of his forearm and tapped it with his phone. He took it.

"I would never use your phone to do anything that could leave a trace," she said. "You know that, right?"

"I do," he replied, and he meant it. Both stood up. He put his phone in his pocket, towering over her.

"Thanks for making me understand," he said. "You have to know that any information you share with me, I will keep to myself. You can trust me."

"I know," she said, twiddling with her fingers, not moving.

"Do you need me to stay with you tonight?" he asked.

He couldn't see her face, but she lowered her eyes in embarrassment.

"No," she said. "My father always thought and hoped that he could somehow save my mom from herself, but… he couldn't. We can't really fight other people's demons, I guess. Not that we're like them, just… you know what I mean."

"I do."

Still, she didn't move, but instead of questioning her, he stood in front of her, waiting.

"I was wondering if you would be my friend."

His eyebrows shot up. "Your friend?"

Her voice was vulnerable and it struck him that he didn't appreciate how _young_ she really was, not just in age but in terms of friendships and socializing with people who weren't potential murderers or who didn't avoid her because of her father.

"I mean, I know I'm insensitive and strange in my interests, and you think my dad was the worst person who ever lived, but other than that, I can be a good friend. I've never really had many people who would stick with me through thick and thin, but I'm a fast learner."

"That sounds more like a marriage proposal."

She felt herself turn red as she blinked at him.

"I understand if you don't want to. It's okay."

He stepped closer, took her shoulders in his hands, and pushed them both gently toward the window so that he could see her face. Once he did, he squeezed her shoulders.

"Are you going to betray me?"

"What? No, of course not."

"Can I trust you one hundred percent?"

"Yes."

"Okay." He searched her eyes. "I will be your friend, but if you backstab me, there will be no mercy."

"Define 'backstab.'"

"What?!"

"I'm kidding, I'm kidding!"

Letting go of her, he scoffed, and they walked to his doorway. He stopped to say goodnight when she threw her arms around him. He felt strong and warm against her, and she breathed him in as she pressed her cheek against his chest. He hesitated before squeezing her in his arms and running his fingers through her hair. She got goosebumps, and backed away.

"Thank you," she said with a smile in her voice. He returned it.

"You have a good night, Isabella."

"You, too," she replied, skipping every other step as she went upstairs. Edward set aside his phone, undressing and wondering if he'd ever go to sleep with this information overflow and the scent of her in his head.

Fifteen minutes later, he unlocked his phone and decided to find out what Isabella found so interesting about Bebbled.


	7. HP Elitebook Folio

...

 **Emma Matthews**  
by Anton M.

 **Chapter 7:** **HP Elitebook Folio**

...

She was scribbling in a notebook when Edward appeared in the kitchen, wearing dark grey pants, a button-down shirt, and a blue tie. It was minutes to 7:30 AM and Isabella still had her pajamas on.

"Morning, Emma," he said, placing his business suit jacket on the back of a chair. "Bacon?"

Tired of telling him not to cook for her, she found that she liked the idea.

"If you don't mind," she replied.

"Coming right up."

As he prepared their food, she observed him in his white shirt and grey pants. He was toned and the suit fit him well.

"Don't you look dashing today."

Bacon started sizzling in butter before he peeled himself an orange and sat across from her. He smiled. "Thanks."

"What's the occasion?"

"A meeting in Milwaukee."

"Riveting, I bet. What's the content? Is it top secret?"

"No," he said. "Regular level of secrecy."

"Pity."

"Why?"

She shrugged, striking through an entire line with her blue pen before she raised her eyes.

"I think it's interesting, what you do," she replied. "A little mysterious and kind of fascinating. What's your routine day like when you're not undercover?"

"Routine day? Never had one."

She observed his clear eyes, noticing his long eyelashes and crooked nose. He stood up and leaned against the table a couple of feet from her, eating his orange and watching her.

"Do you really want to know about my meeting?"

"Sure."

"There's a man with a criminal past who's been in protective custody for half a year. The marshals taking care of the case have reason to believe that he's no longer safe, and I've been successful at creating strategies where… men like him are concerned. They've asked for my input, so I'll be gone every day until Friday."

"That's all?"

He let out a laugh and put a slice of orange in front of her before returning to the electric range.

"I'm sorry to disappoint you, Miss Excitement."

She smiled. "Are you allowed to tell me what you just did?"

"I wouldn't be allowed to say that his name is Reginald."

"Is it?"

"No."

She scoffed in amusement and returned to her script. Edward finished frying bacon, put a plate of it between them and ate it in silence. Their easy-going morning made her feel at home, and she held out a piece of paper as Edward put on his business suit jacket. He took it, frowning.

"What's this?"

"It's a list of people I aim to kill," she replied dryly.

"Colored felt, decorative wire, gumdrops, floss…"

"Cotton, not dental."

His eyes met hers, and she smiled timidly.

"I would like to get those things from the store, if you have the time."

"Why?"

"Because." She made circles after circles in the corner of her paper, watching her pen. "Because I've read seven books in the last four days. Because I've never really taken the time to prepare for the holidays. Because it would help me take my mind off things."

"It's October 28, Isabella. A little early for Christmas, don't you think?"

"I can pay you."

"Witness protection covers all necessary expenses for witnesses."

"I don't think colored felt qualifies."

"I don't know," he replied in a serious voice. "If they knew you, I think they might agree it's a necessary investment."

She smiled. "So you'll do it?"

He read through the list. "It's a bit too specific, but if you come with me on Friday evening or Saturday, we can find these things together. Is there anything urgent?"

"Nope. Just that decorative wire I'm going to strangle the neighborhood with."

"Very funny."

"Don't pretend you didn't just go through each and every one of those items and wonder what alternative purpose they could serve. But if I wanted to kill you with a spoon, Edward, you'd be out of luck because I would smack you against the head with it, you'd say, 'ow,' take the spoon away from me, and that would be the end of my career as a spy."

He let out a laugh.

"So as flattered as I am that you think I could kill people with colored felt, I'm just… I'm just trying not to go mad. I want to spend my time doing something with my hands."

The doorbell rang. Edward put her list down, took his bag, and tapped her shoulder to make her look up.

"We can go shopping together on Friday evening."

She smiled.

"Thank you."

Edward left as Marshal Seth Varney joined Isabella in the kitchen. He put down his leather laptop case and sat next to her. He had the most nondescript appearance with his brownish hair, equally vague eyebrows and grayish eyes. If he ever committed a crime, every second male on the street would match his description.

She wondered if he would breathe down her neck all day.

"So what do you usually do with your riveting day?" he asked, taking out his laptop. Isabella noted that its model, HP Elitebook Folio, suited programming quite perfectly, but she didn't show much enthusiasm.

"Riveting," she repeated. "My favorite word."

"Really?"

"No."

"What's your favorite word then?"

"Pity."

"What's a pity?"

"My favorite word."

"Really?"

"No."

He let out a laugh. "They told me you were some sort of a cyber genius, but you don't sound all that threatening to me."

"Appearances can be deceiving."

He smiled, entering his password in the computer, oblivious to the sharp attention she paid to his fingers. Was it just a coincidence that Edward didn't have a laptop or had Carlisle told him not to let her close to a computer? If so, had he given Seth the same order? It wouldn't make sense for Carlisle to show distrust in her because that would affect Edward's trust in her, but what if Carlisle had told them to be careful? And wouldn't that make Seth be more wary around her?

She hadn't brought up the issue with Edward yet, but she knew she had options.

First, Edward had an android. She could and would work with it, but she didn't prefer to. Surely, Edward wouldn't notice a Hacker's Keyboard installed from Play Store. It's not like the name was a dead giveaway or anything.

Second, she could ask Edward to take her to the library and use a computer there, with or without his presence.

Third, and most appealing of all, she could gauge Seth's opinion on the matter. She could do something mind-numbingly dull on his computer for so many days that she'd gain his trust.

Most of her coding wouldn't work on the first try, of course. Any long string of code that worked on the first try written by anyone would be like winning the lottery. More so, the more advanced her code, the smaller the probability of winning that lottery. It wasn't likely. But if she got an hour or two to type her code in and try it out, she could make it work. She knew she could.

Preferably before Monday the 9th.

"What are you writing?" Seth asked, reading one of her scripts.

"Python."

"What's that?"

"Code."

"For what purpose?"

"A computer game."

"You can program a computer game?"

Wasn't he (made) aware of what she could or couldn't do? Isabella couldn't be happier.

"It might not work."

"Sounds like something you should be doing on a computer."

She smiled. "I don't have one yet."

She chose her words carefully, as if purchasing one was only a matter of time.

"I need to write emails before twelve, but you can use my laptop in the afternoon. You're not going to do some complicated cyber thing on it, are you?"

"Of course not. You can sit next to me if it makes you feel any better."

"Yeah," he replied, shrugging. "I probably should."

So he was aware that she shouldn't be trusted, but took her word for it? Either that, or he believed her abilities to be exaggerated.

She knew that one of the main reasons the DEA had asked to cooperate with her was how harmless she appeared. Despite resenting the prejudice her youth and appearance caused, it seemed to work in her favor a lot. If all she had to do was to assure Seth, how was he to know she was doing something else entirely with her code? If he barely knew what Python was, how was he to recognize what she was doing?

"You didn't really answer before," he said. "What do you usually do with your day?"

"There's a rowing machine upstairs that I use to exercise before noon. Then, I write code, I read like it's the last day of my life, and I watch TV with Edward in the evenings."

She left out the part where she read in the gym while Edward exercised, but even so, Seth scoffed.

"Riveting, indeed," he said. "That sounds like the dullest time in the word."

"I don't really have a say in what I do at the moment."

Opening his email account, he turned to look at her, resting his chin on his palm, and for the first time since she'd met him, Isabella felt like Seth knew more of her life than he let on.

"How are you coping with this change?"

"I'm fine."

"What did you usually do with your time?"

"I swam. I programmed. I watched documentaries. I studied."

"But what do you do for fun?"

"What do you mean?"

"I know you were like the next big thing in swimming, but what do you like to do in your free time?"

She frowned. "That _is_ what I like to do in my free time."

He whistled.

"What?"

"You might be the most boring person I've ever met," he said, joking. "Is it hard, programming?"

"That depends on what level you're doing it. I think it's fascinating."

"Is it harder for you?"

"Than for who?"

"It's usually done by men, isn't it?"

"You think that because I have two X chromosomes, flow control statements become gibberish to me?"

He paused, and she knew he had no clue what a flow control statement was. She didn't know whether to scoff or laugh.

"I rest my case."

"But it is a male-dominated field, isn't it?"

"That's mainly because of interest, not capability."

"Men are better at spacial awareness."

"Actually, there was a study made in Austria in 2008 that showed that if women were made to think like men, they performed equally as well in spacial awareness tasks. So you're essentially talking about the impact of environment, perceived stereotypes and how they affect testing than the objective spacial awareness."

"You really know your facts, don't you."

"This is not the first time I'm told programming must be hard for me because I'm female."

"I meant no offense."

"I know."

"You're quite argumentative."

"Only when faced with stereotypes."

"Sometimes stereotypes are true."

"And sometimes they prevent people from seeing individuals without preconceived notions."

"So you admit stereotypes exist."

"I never claimed otherwise. Just don't come telling me that women like Maria Agnesi, Ruth Lawrence and Sheila Prakash are actually men."

"I've never heard of them."

"I'll rent you a book."

Despite their argument, both smiled, and Isabella found that she enjoyed arguing with Seth. His arguments might've been ill-conceived, but he seemed open-minded enough to consider the facts she presented to him.

He gave her a small smile and started typing while she gathered all her papers.

"I'm going to work out upstairs before raking some leaves in the backyard. Do you need my full daily schedule or is that enough?"

"You don't owe me a schedule, Emma."

"All right."

She turned to leave.

"Emma?"

"Yeah?"

"I think women are equal to men in their intelligence."

"I thought so," Isabella replied, smiling. "Don't worry, I don't take offense easily. In fact, we can argue some more over lunch. Deal?"

"Deal."

She thought the treadmill was one of the dullest ways to exercise, and she didn't know what the hell to do with a vibration plate, so, as always, she spent the next two hours rowing. Having showered, she got dressed warmly and found herself a rake from the back porch. Standing on the doorway, she peeked inside.

"Want to join me? I found another rake."

Seth sat on the couch, laptop in his lap.

"I think I'll pass," he replied. "Thank you."

"Suit yourself."

It was a sunny if cold morning, and she started raking from a distant corner of the yard. Half an hour had passed when she discovered that a man, perhaps around her age, was watching her from the neighboring porch. He sat on a swinging chair with a woolen blanket over his lap, and a laptop. His eyes caught hers. When she raised her hand to wave, he sat up and walked up to her. Curly light hair peeked out from under his hand and he had grey eyes. He was, perhaps, five foot nine.

"I'm sorry for sitting there like a creep," he said, holding out his gloved hand. "I just couldn't figure out if we've met, but I don't think we have. I'm Lucas, but everyone calls me Luke."

"Emma," she replied. "It's a pleasure."

He had a straight smile.

"So are you Elizabeth's cousin or what?"

"Oh, no. My husband and I are renting from her."

"Husband, huh? Thought you were younger than that."

"I'm 25."

"You look younger."

"I get that a lot." She smiled. "What about you?"

He put his hands in his pockets, swaying on his heels. "23. I'm a Classical Humanities major at Madison. Just visiting my parents for the week."

"Sounds nice. Where's Madison?"

"About 45 minutes drive from here," he said. "So what do you do? Housewife?"

"Ah, no. I'm a freelance web designer."

His eyes lit up. "Really? Would you happen to know how to open a dv4 file and to make a continuous loop of only fifteen seconds of it?"

"I think I could figure it out."

"God, I've been trying to deal with that for, like, two days. Would you mind helping me?"

"Not at all. When?"

"Like, yesterday?" he replied, letting out a chuckle. "I'm sorry, I know you don't know me or anything, I just need to send my homework by tomorrow evening and I still have other stuff to figure out in it. Please? Please, please?"

She leaned against her rake, smiling. "No need to beg, I'll do it. Would you mind coming over in ten minutes? I'd like to get changed first. Also, my uncle… Reginald is visiting us, just so you know that the old man is not my husband."

"Oh, wow, okay. You make up your mind quick. Thank you."

"I do." She walked up to her back porch and put away the rake. "I'll see you in ten minutes."

"You betcha."

Closing the back door, Isabella started taking off her layers of clothes.

"Don't freak out, but we're going to have a visitor in ten minutes."

"Why would I freak out?"

"I don't know what Marshals do in these situations."

"Who is it?"

"Our neighbor. His name is Luke and he needs help with a video file."

"Sounds pretty harmless."

"Either way, you're here and you have a gun, I guess, but I don't think he wants to murder me."

"It's fine. You're allowed to talk to people and help them."

"Thanks," she said. "Also, you're my uncle and your name is Reginald."

"Reginald?"

He scoffed.

"It was the first name that popped into my head. Edward mentioned it in the morning. You can tell him you prefer to be called, I don't know. Jerry."

He chuckled, and she left to change her clothes.

She spent ten minutes on the task Luke claimed to have spent two days on, and when she was done, he showed her funny videos on youtube and they discussed college and life. She was careful to remember the details she invented, but overall, he was easy to get along with. When an hour had passed, they made sandwiches for themselves and sat around the kitchen table. He was staring at her.

"What?"

"Nothing." He looked away. "Why are all the cool chicks always taken?"

Unused to such attention, she smiled.

"Thanks, I guess."

He left, thanking her, but after the door had closed, Seth whistled. He was sitting on an armchair in the corner of the living room, grinning.

"Someone has a cruuush."

"Oh, shut up, _Reginald_. He's not my type."

Still smiling, Seth tilted his head on the side. "I'm not speaking about you."

Seth hadn't forgotten his promise to let her around his laptop, but Isabella didn't expect him to be so guileless when it came to giving her access to his computer. She downloaded the necessary software for Python, typed in the code she had for that ridiculously simple, two-dimensional game, and showed it to him as proof of innocence of her intentions. Then, she claimed that she wanted to figure out how to add colors, which, of course, she already knew how to do. As she typed, he became more at ease, turning his attention at the TV. The content of her code changed and her typing sped up, but he didn't seem to notice.

She spent an hour and a half typing. The easiness scared her. For an unexperienced eye, nothing changed on her screen as she encrypted Seth's IP address, and there was no noise or light to signal that she had reached Carlisle's firewall. Yet, the few symbols on top of her screen made her heart thump inside her chest.

So this part of her code still worked. But she was sure Whitlock had noticed the security breach she'd exploited when she was working with the DEA. He must have recognized the same thing in their computers. How sensitive was their firewall to her tries to hack in? How easily would it send alarm messages to Whitlock? Most of all, how could she figure out a way for the firewall to send her a warning message if she came too close to his alarm system?

She needed more than an hour around Seth's computer. She needed a computer, 24/7. How could Rosalie expect her to do this alone, knowing that Whitlock had probably doubled their security measures?

"Everything okay?"

Isabella gave him a tight-lipped smile, knowing that he would not be looking quite as casual if he knew what she was displaying on the screen.

"Yeah, it's just, I wanted to make a randomized loop of the ball's movement but I keep getting error messages. See?"

She changed windows, typed in a regular for loop she knew wouldn't work, and sure enough, three Error messages and a Warning appeared on the screen.

"Have you googled the errors? Surely someone has had the same problem."

"I did, actually, but none of the solutions work for me." She smiled. "Thanks, anyway. You think like a programmer. Google is our best friend."

He smiled and continued watching _Heat._

Isabella sat closer to the back of the couch, limiting Seth's view of her screen, switched windows and sent an encrypted message to Rosalie's IP address. A minute later, she received a reply.

 _We'll help you, Sepii_ _da_ _, but you've done this level of encrypting before. We have not._

 _I spent 72 hours on it last time. I can't disappear for three days and nights without Blue noticing._

 _Would you like us to distract his security system? That way, if you reach his alarm, he has so many alarms he doesn't know which one to focus on._

 _Might actually work. Let me do what I can, and you prepare to distract him on, say, Wednesday. OK?_

 _OK._

 _It will have to be quick, they're sure to deny me access to any technology once it happens. Any news on Nightshade?_

 _17._

Her brother was in Ohio.

 _Too close. Physical meeting?_

 _No signs._

 _Good._

 _How's Blue?_

 _Careful. Kindest man I've met. I've never felt safer even when I know I've never been less safe._

 _He'll forgive._

 _Maybe._

 _I'm so relieved to hear from you. Can you sleep?_

"Any progress?" Seth asked, and Isabella nearly jumped out of her skin. She opened Google.

"Just a little. I got rid of one error, see?"

She inserted a function she knew would give her two errors, and Seth smiled at her.

"Edward should be home any moment."

"Yes, of course," she replied. "I'll finish up."

She closed all windows without replying to Rosalie and shut his laptop. Twenty minutes later, Edward arrived. Seth said his goodbyes and Isabella helped Edward make dinner, her mind swirling with possibilities. She forgot to ask who would meet her at the Walmart on the 9th and if that would be the date she would take off.

How was she going to pull off hacking into a computer as protected as Carlisle's?


	8. Dell Inspiron 15

…

 **Emma Matthews**  
by Anton M.

 **Chapter 8:** **Dell Inspiron 15**

…

The next morning, Isabella sat in the kitchen in her pajamas and listened to Seth and Edward share a few inconsequential words. When Edward left, Seth walked in the kitchen and set his laptop case in front of her. He sat on the table next to it. Raising his legs on a chair, he leaned forward and rested elbows on his knees, staring at her. Something had changed.

She shifted.

"Stress and insomnia make you sloppy, Isabella."

She felt blood drain from her face, but said nothing.

"I would ask you who Blue is, but I think it's pretty self-evident," Seth continued. "You might have the skills, but I have the technology."

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"That's unfortunate because I happen to know that you are a very, _very_ bright young lady."

"I did nothing wrong."

"Yet."

Slowly, he unzipped his laptop case, and the sound gave her goosebumps.

"Sepiida," he said. "Cuttlefish, a clever name for the daughter of El Camaleón. They change texture, shape and color, it's all quite brilliant. But you know what else is interesting about cuttlefish?"

Isabella stayed silent. She'd fallen straight into the trap he'd set by pretending to be all gullible. He had not been the naïve one. She had.

"They change their appearance according to what's underneath them, not next to them. I think that's where you went wrong."

Heart pounding in her chest, she waited for the ax to fall. She could escape, she could hack into Carlisle's PC alone in a hotel room. The problem was, once she took off, she'd have Carlisle as well as her brother (and his underlings) chasing after her. The idea didn't appeal to her.

Seth narrowed his eyes, staring at her, until a weak smile covered his face.

"Lucky for you, my involvement in your case has served a more ambiguous purpose from the very beginning."

He took out a laptop, a black Dell Inspiron 15 5000. Isabella's eyes flickered between the laptop she'd never seen, and Seth.

"If Edward and I had switched places, you'd be on your way to Carlisle's office by now. Edward is loyal to a fault."

"I don't understand."

"It means, Sepiida." He leaned closer, opening the laptop and turning it on. "Buckle your seatbelt, Dorothy, because Kansas is going bye, bye."*

In a daze, Isabella watched the screen come to life until it stopped at settings, which had to be specified. He'd gotten her a new laptop.

"How do I know it's not a trap?"

She lifted her eyes to see him hold an amulet. It was an old, silver one on a green string, and his tight-lipped smile was bittersweet. She swallowed the tightness in her throat.

She had met her godfather twice in her life. The first time it happened, she must've been in second grade at Vicente Guerrero Primary School in Ciudad Valles in San Luis Potosí, Mexico. She was seven. Since kindergarten, Isabella and her brother had been picked up every day by one of their three chauffeurs (body-guards) who had, as her father had explained to them, a "secret word" the kids knew. Isabella and Jacob had strict instructions not to sit in a car with a driver who did not know it. But on a hot summer afternoon, a seemingly random man had known their word, and they got in his car.

He spoke little on the way home and that made the kids nervous, but once they arrived, her father welcomed the man like you'd greet a best friend. Charlie smoked a pipe on the rarest of occasions, but that evening, he smoked one with the man on their back porch. Isabella understood little of their conversation, but youth didn't stop her from noticing that few people could elicit such warmth from her father, a man many people feared.

The man played with her and Jacob the next morning before he took off again. The sun was up, and her father squeezed her shoulders as they watched his car disappear behind a curve.

"¿A ti te gusta el?"

"Si, papá. ¿Quién es el?"

Her father's face crinkled as he smiled.

The second time she met him in dire circumstances in Monterrey, the capital city of Nuevo León, Mexico. She was fifteen. Barely keeping herself together, she had explained how she found her mother to her father. Never had her father left a place as unwillingly as he left Renee that noon so that the police could be called and protocols followed. The police searched the area for the infamous El Camaleón, to no avail. Isabella had revealed nothing. After many arguments, her father didn't attend the funeral (or he would have found himself in jail), but two weeks later, he spent a night sitting next to his wife's tombstone while his bodyguards surrounded the cemetery.

It was her godfather who held her shoulders, an action so characteristic of her father, during the funeral.

She hadn't paid attention to what the man looked like, and despite having met her godfather only twice in her (conscious) life, her father had told her stories of him. Occasionally, her godfather's brother Sam would come up. Both good men, he'd said. Serving the law on the other side, now, he'd mentioned as they moved to Las Cruces, New Mexico when she was thirteen. He sounded proud. He'd never said her godfather's real name, and she'd never asked. It was only like this, in the shadows, that they could be friends, and she grew to recognize the importance of keeping their communication subtle. Probably more so than she could imagine as a kid.

Disbelieving, she merely blinked at the man. "My father gave you something when your brother died. What were they?"

He pressed his lips together and put the amulet in her palm. "Two engraved shot glasses, one with my name and one with my brother's."

Sniffing, she stood to give him a hug.

"You're Angus."

"I'm sorry about yesterday. I had to know you were attempting what your father said you would." He pulled back and held her shoulders in his hands. "I'm sorry that we meet in such grim circumstances."

"I'm not. You don't know how relieved I am."

"Regardless, you cannot afford to be as sloppy as you were yesterday. If anyone else had been stupid enough to hand you a computer like that? Doubt their intentions."

"I'm sorry."

"Don't be sorry. Be on top of your game."

Yesterday, she'd felt that Seth knew more of her life than he let on, and now Isabella knew why. Because he _did_.

He felt like a different person to her now, no longer arguing about silly things or looking nonchalant. He seemed focused and clear. It felt like night and day compared to yesterday, and the difference was hard to grasp. She was full of questions. How had he made sure to be assigned to her case? How had he hidden his connection to Charlie from Carlisle? Or any other authority, for that matter? How did he earn Carlisle's trust? Did Jacob not know about her godfather, the same way she had found out about his only months ago? Part of what made Charlie such a good businessman was how separate he kept his (many) connections. Did he foresee the advantages of those choices? Could he see from early on that she might need protection once he was gone?

When had her father found the time or the place or the means to disclose this plan to Angus?

Her father had taken care of her, even when Isabella had been too tired (or desperate or stressed) to doubt Seth's intentions. Had it been anyone else, her own lapse in judgement might have cost her her life. She'd either be in Carlisle's office, explaining herself, under 24/7 surveillance (if she agreed to continue to be a witness), or she'd be left alone with nothing but money and her wits to crawl out of this mess.

She was playing on the edge of a knife, and she couldn't trip again.

"I thought you were on the good side of the law, now."

"Am I not?" he asked, eyebrows raised. He stood up and gave her a look that spoke volumes of the trust he had in her. He put his occupation, freedom and life in danger so that she could do this.

"I will not let you down," she said.

He squeezed her shoulder. "You have 16 hours to handle a task twice as hard. You better get started."

That's exactly what she did. She spent the day in her pajamas huddled on her bed, programming, so that if Edward arrived earlier than usual, Seth could talk loudly enough for her to have time to hide her computer. Seth brought her a sandwich for lunch, and she smiled in gratitude but continued writing. At fifteen minutes to four, Seth appeared on her doorstep.

"It's wisest if you stop before Edward gets home."

She closed the programs and reluctantly handed the laptop over. She would have been too tempted to write code when Edward was home, and there was the possibility of him hearing the tapping of her keyboard at night, so she was forced to agree with Seth. Keeping the laptop in her room wasn't the wisest idea.

She got changed and joined Seth in the living room. Her shoulders and neck ached from hunching all day, and she wished that she could jump in a pool and work off the tension. But she couldn't.

It was strange, to be as close to Seth through his father as she was and yet know so little of the life he'd lived and the choices he'd made. Her somewhat idealistic view of Angus was shaped by her father's high regard for him because her father… he was _proud_ of Angus, of his choice to change his life around and of his intelligence and connections. So she knew _of_ him, she didn't know _him_ , Marshal Seth Varney. Angus.

"You didn't come to dad's funeral," she said, rubbing her neck and making circles with her head to loosen her muscles.

"I couldn't. I could get away with it when it was your mother because I went to school with her and we were allowed to be seen as friends, but I couldn't. I'm sorry. It was… El Camaleón. I would have never worked in law enforcement again if I showed my face there."

"You went to school with my mother?"

"Who do you think introduced your parents?"

She hesitated, and looking at him, at his slight frown and his nondescript features, she felt lucky to have her godfather here, but also, immensely curious. She felt like she got back a piece of her father.

"I guess I've never really thought about it," she replied. "But… how are you here? Seeing that you came to mom's funeral, how did you convince Carlisle and the rest of the law enforcement you were trustworthy? _Do_ they trust you?"

"I _am_ here, aren't I?" He put his mobile phone on the table to turn his attention to her. "Your father was always a good sport about it."

"You chased him?"

"I cooperated with people who did, but I asked information about your father's location from him before he left a place. I also warned him if they got too close. Every time he left evidence of his presence, I got praised for helping the DEA and the FBI get so close. Just never close enough."

"I bet my dad enjoyed the imaginary chase."

"He left some cheeky stuff behind, yeah."

"Does Jacob know your real name?"

"It's unlikely but not impossible. I don't think he does. If he did, his underlings would have threatened or contacted me by now. I wouldn't go so far as to say that your father knew all along that this might happen, but it didn't catch him by surprise. If anything like this had happened five years earlier, I would've still been here for you with a couple of people he trusted. We'll find a way to keep you safe if the worst happens. Now, tell me. What did that 17 mean? Do you know where Jacob is?"

"My friends think he's in Ohio."

"That's way too close."

"There's nothing I can do about it now."

"Carlisle told us yesterday that they think he's in South Carolina."

"I heard."

Seth leaned forward, resting elbows on his knees. "You have to be efficient, quick, and get out of his system as fast as you can. How far did you get today?"

"Less than half is done, but I managed to create a code that sends me a warning if I get too close to his alarm system. I might manage to mute his system entirely, but we'll see. I have high hopes for breaking through without leaving a trace. Whitlock will be none the wiser. I also let my friend in Baltimore know. She and my friends no longer need to attack his system at random to divert their attention."

"Do you code in a specific way? Is there a coding handwriting you leave behind that can be traced back to you?"

The living room lit up for a moment from headlamps. Edward had arrived.

"No," she replied. "Not that I know of. I deliberately use a different style from the one I used for the DEA. If I succeed, and I think I will, nobody can prove it's me."

"The American public will jump out of their skin if you succeed in doing this."

"I know."

He waited for the front door to open, and once it did, they both got up and met Edward at the door. Seth put his jacket on as Edward took his off, and Isabella felt the urge to hug Seth. But she couldn't, not without giving anything away.

"Did she behave?" Edward asked Seth.

Seth shrugged.

"Watched her like a hawk," he replied. "Didn't give her the chance not to."

"Good," Edward replied, taking off his shoes. When the door shut behind Seth, Isabella found herself in Edward's personal space, hugging him. She was overwhelmed by the fact that her father had made sure she had a person to trust in a situation like this, and she felt the need to express it.

Edward set down his grocery bag and returned her hug, if a little awkwardly at first. "Are you okay?"

"Fine," she replied against his chest. "I don't like Seth."

It was the opposite of how she felt, and he gave the comment more attention than it deserved.

He pushed her back to see her face, and she stared at his concerned eyes. "He didn't… attempt anything with you, did he?"

"No! God, no. It's just… he told me he was one of the people who helped the FBI and the DEA track my father."

There, that wasn't even a lie.

When Edward let his arms fall, he squeezed her hand for a moment. "He was only doing his job. It proves we can trust him and he's on the right side of the law."

If only you knew, Edward.

"That doesn't mean I have to like him."

Dinner, as always, was Edward's idea and initiation. He cooked better food than she could remember having, and while he never asked her to help him, she always did (with a few exceptions). Unlike him, she wasn't picky about food—admittedly, she drew the line at blue cheese because she thought nothing edible should mold—and she quite enjoyed chopping with him. Today, they were making Panang curry with beef. When their curry was left to simmer and a rice bag boiling, he left to change out of his work clothes, but not before digging out an old-fashioned mobile phone from his bag.

"This is for you," he said, handing over the phone with its charger. "It's for whenever you need to reach me. Your number is on the sticky note on the back."

She turned over the Samsung E1205. The phone had buttons and not a trace of the internet, probably.

"Wow," Isabella replied. "Isn't that high tech."

He smiled, saying nothing.

They had a very Wisconsin dessert, frozen custard, which was like ice-cream except that it wasn't—something to do with egg content, Edward told her—but she didn't mind. It tasted just as delicious.

At around seven, as they were watching TV and Isabella had given up on massaging her neck in favor of rowing in the gym later, their doorbell rang. Isabella stood up but Edward caught her arm to stop her.

"When it's the two of us, I'm the one answering the door, okay?" He tucked his gun under his jeans. "Stay behind me."

"Is this really necessary?"

"Did you or did you not tell me a couple of days ago that you think your brother put a hit out on you?"

"I did, but—"

"Then stay behind me."

Lucas, smiling at Edward, had a laptop under his arm.

"Hi!" He offered his hand for Edward to shake. "I'm Luke. I'm your neighbor. I was wondering if your, er, Emma is home."

"Hi, Luke." Isabella stepped out from behind Edward. "Computer troubles?"

"Uh, yeah. I'm sorry. I didn't know your number or your email and I kind of have to send this by tomorrow, so I was wondering if you could help me a little. It will only take a second."

"Sure," she replied, opening the door wide. "Come on in."

Luke sat on the living room couch. Isabella's eyes sparkled in amusement as she passed Edward, and he narrowed his eyes in response.

For the next half an hour, Isabella explained the exercise and its solution to Luke. She was sitting between the guys, and Edward had slung his arm on the back of the couch. His eyes were on the TV while he tickled her ear with a tendril of her hair. It was a random enough thing to do, but when she looked at him with a question in her eyes, he smiled sheepishly but didn't stop. It occurred to her that, like the stunt Seth pulled yesterday, Luke's presence and questions could be a potential test _Edward_ set up, but judging by the men's reaction to each other, it wasn't likely. Even if it were true, she had done nothing potentially compromising on Luke's computer.

After the door closed behind Luke, Isabella joined Edward on the couch. Because his arm was still on the same place, the back of her neck grazed against his fingers. She got goose bumps.

"I would've left you alone, but I'm afraid he would've convinced you to have sex with him in the basement."

"It's a good thing you weren't around yesterday, then," she replied, keeping a straight face.

His palm surrounded the back of her neck as he leaned forward. "What?"

Seeing his face filled with surprise and hurt, Isabella lifted her legs on the couch and surrounded her knees with her arms, grinning at him.

He let out a sigh of relief.

"Don't do that to me. He's a tool."

"Why do you say that? He was perfectly nice to me."

"Yeah, but I bet the hospital is angry because he used up all their ultrasound gel for his hair."

She scoffed a laugh.

As usual, he spent the evening beating a punching bag, but today, she joined him without her usual book and spent two hours rowing next to him, hoping to loosen her stiff neck. She only succeeded to some degree. The next morning, she wished with a growing restlessness that she could sneak to a swimming pool and spend a day in it. Regardless, she ate breakfast with Edward and disappeared in her room as soon as Seth arrived with the laptop. She avoided thinking of the weight and ambition of her plans and focused with such intensity Seth had to tap her shoulder after she didn't react to him repeatedly calling her name. She felt too wired to eat much.

At one PM, she contacted Rosalie.

 _Send me an empty text as soon as you have evidence of a physical meeting._

 _Number?_

 _n21p. ccm6 .n18dp and xxx cm28g sgpp_

 _Will do. What if we find out too late?_

 _Then I'm dead._

 _Very funny._

 _Knew you'd appreciate it._

 _If I succeed,_ Isabella continued, _I will send my code to you, and I need you to get in the moment you have evidence of a physical meeting. I'll code it to send it to Narwhal._

 _Why not just send the data straight to me? It's quicker._

 _It'_ _s a heavy burden to carry._ _I'm not eager to have it as plan A._

 _You know it would make more sense to give me the data than to wait for them to meet. This needs to be out there pronto._

 _Following that logic, I could just send it to Narwhal the moment I get in._

 _Don't fuck with me, Sepiida. I know that YOU know he'll sniff it from a mile away. Not that he will need to. Are you sure you can trust Narwhal?_

 _Dad said I could._

 _People change._

 _Do they?_

 _Those sarcasm tentacles, man. You OK otherwise?_

 _Yes._

She thought for a second.

 _Angus is here,_ she wrote, but deleted the letters one by one. She couldn't. Nothing could signify how she got the computer, no matter which names she used for anyone, and Seth didn't have a code name. She hadn't expected him to turn up.

 _I'm hopeful,_ she wrote instead. _Any news on Nightshade?_

 _Still there._

 _Waiting._

 _Yes. We all think they'll meet soon, and you need to get out of there ASAP when that happens._

 _No shit, Sherlock._

 _At your service, Sepiida._

Rosalie used simple words, but they touched her.

 _Thank you for doing this for me, and with me. The sirens, too._

 _Always_ , Rosalie wrote back. _You know that._

 _Do you need money? More protection?_

 _I'm good._

What about Eric? Jessica? Mike?

 _And the sirens?_

 _All good. Just get yourself out of there in one piece._

Isabella spent the next two hours hunching over her computer and writing more violently than ever before. At half to four, she held her breath as she reached for a file from Carlisle's computer. Seconds passed. She downloaded a document, waiting for Whitlock's system to react, and when it didn't, she opened a random security detail document. She let out a breath.

Her code worked.

In the next two minutes, however, she determined that the size of… anything, really, meant that she couldn't find and select what she needed. She'd need to download everything, and that would take much, much more time than twenty minutes. How, then, can she do this?

Plans needed to change.

 _How encrypted is your PC?_ Isabella wrote.

 _It's bulletproof._

 _Are you sure?_

 _You're the one who made the code, Sepiida. It's bulletproof._

 _Good. Plans changed. I don't want to do this, but you're right. I will send you the code, and you need to start downloading everything the MOMENT you get my code. To yourself. It will take days or even a week. All safety instructions apply. Got it?_

Isabella started sending the code, and it took fifteen minutes for Rosalie to receive it.

 _The empty text message still applies, okay? Please don't forget._

 _Yeah, it's only your life at stake, but whatever._

 _I will send you guidelines for how to contact Narwhal and what to do with what. All good?_

 _I'm ready._

"Isabella?" Seth appeared on the doorway. "It's four. Edward is minutes away. Are you done?"

"Almost."

 _I'm sorry to put you at risk like that,_ she wrote to Rosalie, sending her another file. _I need to go._

 _Are you kidding me? I'm elated. Finally. You're a genius and the sirens can't believe you did it in two fucking days. See you, and please fucking please, stay alive._

Seth stood in front of the window, hands in his pockets. "Isabella." He warned, and she sped up her writing.

 _Likewise. If you discover Nightshade too late and he finds me before you can warn me, don't blame yourself. None of you are at fault._

 _It won't get to that._

 _Just take care that the data reaches the right people._

Seth had his laptop case unzipped next to her.

 _The person who meets me at the place we discussed, make sure s/he has a second ID for Azul. Love you, be safe._

The moment she snapped the laptop closed, the front door closed. "Varney? Emma?"

Seth threw the laptop inside his bag. "I'll destroy it in the evening," he whispered, and started walking to the corridor but hesitated. "Get changed."

There was no time for a pat on the back, not that she had expected praise, and she changed out of her pajamas and into regular clothes. Her hands shook from anxiety, excitement and nerves. Had she really done it? Will it work? Will Rosalie and the other follow her safety instructions? What if that's not enough? What if Jacob gets to her before Rosalie can warn her?

Her stomach growled as she hopped downstairs, and she realized she'd eaten half a bowl of cornflakes and an apple today. She was starving. She leaned against the wall, watching Seth put his clothes on and Edward shrug out of his coat.

Noticing the silence between Isabella and Seth, Edward asked, "You two still not getting along?"

"He tried to put my dad in jail."

"He would have deserved it," Seth replied.

"What do you know if he did or didn't?" she continued. "It's not like you knew him."

Seth probably knew certain aspects of her father's life better than she did, and opened his mouth to reply in the pretend reality in which he hadn't known Charlie, but Edward interrupted.

"Guys, guys, take a breath. You're both probably right. My day was too long to deal with this. Thanks for helping out, Varney."

"It's not a problem."

The second he opened the door, Isabella remembered that she hadn't told Seth what that empty text message would mean.

So when Seth closed the door and Edward went to the kitchen, Isabella called out, "Ah, shoot, he has my mobile phone! I'll be right back!"

Without waiting for an answer, she ran into the rain in her socks, and stopped Seth from getting in the car.

Quickly, she whispered, "My friend will send you an empty text message the moment they think Jacob knows where I am."

Nodding briefly, he held out his hand for her to shake. "Your father would be proud."

She ran back in the house in her wet socks. Once inside, she took them off, ran upstairs to find dry ones and back downstairs to join Edward. Her life was at (an extremely) high risk not only because of Jacob but because she hacked into Carlisle's government-protected firewall to download information, some classified and some not, in a way that most certainly was not approved by any government organization. She felt relieved and anxious, wired up and… hungry.

Edward had taken out ingredients for their dinner, and she put her phone (that she got from her room) on the table before joining him for some chopping.

"He confiscated your phone?" Edward asked.

"Like someone else I know, he doesn't trust me."

"Trust is earned, not given."

He'd hung his business suit jacket on the back of a chair and his shoulder holster lay on the counter beside the fridge out of the view of the window (that opened to the backyard anyway). She caught herself observing his shoulders, his jaw, and the blue button-down shirt tucked under a brown belt. He didn't have the most symmetrical features, but in light of the rush of adrenaline or guilt or relief, she felt affection surge through her, catching her by surprise, and she put her hand on top of his.

"Can you let go of the knife?"

"Why?" he asked, but already did as she asked and turned to her. Like on the day before, she surrounded him with her arms, wishing to apologize. If, despite all the precautions she took, her authorship could be identified, Edward needed to stay unaware of what she had done. She didn't know Edward too well, but if, despite everything, she was caught (alive), she was determined to keep Edward out of prison. So she couldn't tell him.

In all the short friendships she'd had, this might become a record.

"Wow, you must really hate Varney," he replied, a smile in his voice. "I didn't think you were the affectionate type." But, he must've had a tiring day because he'd never hugged her like he was trying to surround every part of her. He squeezed her to him, rubbing her back and running his fingers through her hair at the back of her neck. She felt a rush of warmth spread through her. His fair and considerate character, just like his physical attributes, made her want to stay in his arms, and she knew she shouldn't acknowledge it, but the surge of affection and attraction she felt for him at this moment were inconceivable. His scent surrounded her.

"Are you okay?" he whispered, just like he'd done yesterday, but somehow, the moment felt intimate. It felt like the time he agreed to hold her hand that first night at the hotel room. And how many times would she be able to feel this secure again? Would he forgive her? Could she hope to meet a man as fair and loyal as he was? It wasn't likely.

"I'm better now," she muttered, not loosening her hold on him. He didn't move, either, and for a minute, they held each other in silence.

"You're shaking," he commented, running his palm down her spine before releasing her. "Are you cold?"

Still affected by the anxiety and guilt running in her veins, she nodded. "A little."

Running his hands over her arms until he held her cold, clammy hands, he frowned. "Are you sure everything's all right? You don't look okay."

"I am."

He held his palm against her forehead and felt cold sweat.

"What is it, then?"

She took a breath. "I barely slept a wink last night, and when I don't sleep, this happens." She held her palms up, and they were visibly shaking. She wasn't lying, either. She hadn't slept much and it _did_ disturb her sense of hot and cold, but only this severely if she was stressed and anxious.

His expression softened.

"It's okay, though," she rushed on, dropping her hands and changing the subject. "Would you agree to teach me self-defense?"

"I'm sorry?"

"I've seen you with your punching bag, and I want to learn self-defense. Will you teach me?"

He searched her eyes. "Of course."

They had dinner, went to the store to pick up the gumdrops and colored felt she'd asked for, and spent an hour doing their individual workouts before he started teaching the basics of self-defense to Isabella. Both stood on the blue mat, facing each other.

"Do you know the first rule of self-defense?" he asked, showing her how to stand and hold her arms, how to hold her hand in relation to her forearm and her thumb in relation to her fist. He showed her both the neutral stance and the fighting stance.

"Distract the attacker?" she guessed.

"Not bad. Guess again."

"Hurt before you get hurt?"

He stepped right in front of her.

"Okay. Imagine you're walking alone in a dark alleyway."

"I wouldn't do that."

"I'm glad. But let's say you're forced to. You have no other choice. As you walk, you notice a man observing you in the distance. He's taller and bigger than you are. As you get closer, you notice something off about the way he observes you, and he starts walking toward you. Slowly at first, quicker as you get closer. What do you do?"

She lowered her arms from the stance he'd taught her, and stared at him. "I'd run."

He gestured with his hand, emphasizing, " _Exactly_."

"The first rule of self-defense is not to use it unless absolutely necessary." He lowered his arms and stood, legs slightly apart. "You told me your father taught you a couple of moves. Use them on me."

"Right now?"

"No, on Monday," he replied dryly. "Yes, now."

She demonstrated the moves and ended up holding him in chokehold on the mat. She didn't (have to) use force (because he did nothing to stop her), and her technique was… lacking at best, but she did manage to get him on the ground. Either way, self-defense wasn't about flawless technique. Real, street self-defense was about what worked, literally anything that helped the potential victim get away.

Edward pulled her arm away, twisting it, and turned to sit on the mat beside her.

"Your father refused to let you learn MMA yet the only moves he did teach you go straight for the kill?" he asked. "I don't know if I'm disgusted or impressed."

"The people he did business with weren't exactly known for their good intentions."

"Point taken. Either way, well done."

"But you didn't even resist."

"You wouldn't have been able to do anything if I had."

"Cocky," she replied, smiling.

"I'm not being cocky," he argued, standing up. "It's physics. I'm taller, I'm bigger, and I'm trained. I have a clear advantage in both size and skill. Here, I'll stand right here, try again."

She did, and while he didn't hurt her in any way, he knew how to twist her arm or wrist with just the right amount of force to make her stop attempting whatever she tried. He had the experience to recognize when to step away from her kicks, and generally made deflecting her moves look ridiculously easy. So much so that, just to get that smug smile off his face, Isabella hopped on his back, hoping to make him lose balance.

No such thing happened.

He grabbed her legs and held them around him while she panted against his neck. She could feel his muscles move and warmth emanate from his skin. It would have been easier if she'd never realized she was attracted to him because then she could pretend that his proximity didn't affect her. It didn't, at all… except for her quick heartbeat, being aware of his every breath, and enjoying his scent just a little too much.

"Enjoying yourself?" he asked, smiling.

"Fine," she replied, disengaging her limbs from around him and lowering herself to the ground. "I concur. So how should I deal with attackers who are bigger and stronger, oh mighty sensei?"

"And who, maybe, don't stand still, letting you beat them?" he quipped.

She gave him a sarcastic smile, refusing to answer, until he got serious again.

"There's no single answer to that, but I can show you how to use your speed and size against them. And while a backflip off the wall followed by a spinning outside slap kick and an inside chop might look cool in a Hollywood movie, in a real situation, you do whatever it takes to help you get away with minimal damage to yourself."

"Okay." She nodded. "But that backflip off the wall followed by the… whatever you said, can you do that?"

"I can," he said, adding nothing else.

"Well?"

"Well what?"

"You make bold claims. I'd like to see it."

If she didn't know any better, she'd say he rolled his eyes, but he did show her where to stand as he backed away from the wall. He ran toward it, up a few steps, and flipped over. He spun around, kicking the air, followed by what looked suspiciously like a dance move, until he stood, arms and legs together, giving her a single nod as if this were a real martial arts class. His speed and skill amazed her, and she had to admit… that was amazing… and hot.

"Where did you learn to do that? I want to do that."

"I just finished telling you why it's not the most practical option, and immediately, those are the moves you want to learn?"

"It looks cool."

"How about we start with the basics?"

She let out an exaggerated breath but smiled. "Fine."

She imitated everything he showed her. He let her practice against the punching bag and against him, he made her repeat moves, again and again, and he showed her defense moves against punches, strikes, and kicks. He focused on teaching her the correct basics so that she wouldn't damage herself.

They lost track of time, and after three hours of panting and sweating, they stretched. He lay on the mat, and she did the same. With every new move he taught her and with every correction he made, it became clearer to her that he was better than he'd admitted to her.

"Have you done martial arts?"

"I still am. Krav maga."

"I can pretend to know what that means, sure."

The last time, it had been him who said that, and, wiping sweat off his forehead, he turned his head. "It's the national martial art of Israel. It combines Wing Chun bursting, wrestling, karate kicks, Brazilian jiu-jitsu ground fighting as well as jiu-jitsu grappling. The purpose is to defend and attack at the same time."

"But you taught me those separately."

"Because it's your first day. If you want to continue learning, you'll get there. We have four months."

She couldn't imagine where she could be in four months, but she couldn't tell him that.

"I do," she replied instead, feeling the pleasant and familiar ache in muscles all over her body. It wasn't swimming, but at least she might be able to sleep after a four-hour workout.

Her stomach growled.

"Is krav maga better than the others?"

"No. It's not that I chose it over other martial arts, it was just closest to me in Pittsburgh at the time."

"How old were you when you started?"

"I was in eighth grade, so 14, I think."

"Do you have a belt?"

"I do."

"And?"

"I had a graduate 5th rank until this year."

"Which tells me absolutely nothing."

He grinned, eyes twinkling.

"What?" she asked.

He turned his head away to look at the ceiling. "It's refreshing to know there's an area in which I'm more knowledgeable than you are."

"I'm sure there are lots of areas you know more about than I do," she replied. "I just wouldn't admit as much to you."

He laughed.

"So, again, 5th rank graduate?"

"Brown belt."

"You're, what, 32? It took you… 18 years to get a black belt?"

"Hold back the awe, will you?"

She reached over to squeeze his forearm, raising her eyes to his. "That's not what I mean."

"I know," he replied. "There were disruptions in my learning, and I switched schools and cities. I think I've studied krav maga for a total of 12 years. In my defense, the opportunity to do an exam for a black belt isn't given to just anyone in krav maga. It's invitation only."

She grinned. "But you did it."

"I did. I'm now black belt 1st dan, or 1st rank expert."

"I'm impressed."

He replied with a kind smile. "Before you are too impressed, you should know that the black belt has up to nine dans, and the opportunity to do the last one is only given to those who dedicate their lives to the martial art."

"Yeah, I change my mind. You suck."

He laughed the silent belly laugh she enjoyed so much. She wiped her fringe away from her face, feeling a slight layer of salt cover her forehead and knowing she probably looked awful, but she wasn't cold yet and she relished sharing this easy-going moment with Edward, who, she realized, looked just as hot when he was red-faced and sweaty as he did normally. Life wasn't fair.

"Why do you like swimming?"

"What's not to like? I'm weightless. I get to feel water rushing over me and under me. I sleep better. Not a single trouble in the world bothers me when I'm swimming. It's like free therapy, except nobody makes you cry."

She felt a familiar tug in her stomach, yearning to be in a pool and swim all her worries away.

"But more than swimming, I like the silence."

He didn't say anything for a while.

"Do you feel like I took that from you?"

"No," she replied. "I don't mean to make you feel that way, and I'm sorry if I do. You're just the only one who sees me struggle not to have it in my life. It's Jacob's fault, not yours."

"Thank you."

"For what?"

"For telling me. I'd started to think you'd grown to resent me for taking that from you."

She turned on her side and rested her head on her palm.

"You're a good man."

His hands were underneath his head as he looked at her.

"Was it difficult to grow up the way you did?" he asked, taking a chance. She seemed open to discussion today. Sure enough, when she eyed him, there was no hostility in her eyes, and she averted her gaze and stared at the ceiling.

"I used to think there was something wrong with me that other kids didn't play with me, especially in kindergarten and elementary school. I always shared my toys and pens and textbooks to make others, I don't know, accept me, I guess. They never did, so I thought it was my fault. I was defective in some way, incapable of friendship. As I grew older and started to understand the whispering, I realized most parents had forbidden their children to talk to me, much less befriend me. There were a handful of kids who either disobeyed their parents or had a parent who didn't care, and they… those are the people I miss. I wish I'd memorized their last names so I could google them and just… let them know how grateful I am."

"Did the kids bully you?"

"Are you kidding me? My father would've shot them, or that's what they thought."

Eyeing her, he pressed his lips together, contemplating.

"When I was sixteen, I forged my mother's signature and found us a cheap apartment in Harrisburg. As a kid, I felt… helpless, watching my father treat my mother the way he did, and being on the receiving end of his temper at least as often. But as I got into self-defense and grew taller than him, for the first time, I felt like maybe I could do something. I'd had endless arguments with my mom, but she always had a bucketful of excuses for how he treated her. One day, after a particularly nasty… incident, I wrote her CV and applied to an English teacher position at Harrisburg High School, pretending to be her. I gave them all my documents as well as my sister's, and spent all my savings on the U-Haul to send our stuff there, until a Friday evening before Christmas, she and my sister arrived to an empty apartment. She thought I'd gotten into drugs."

Wordless and amazed, she waited for him to continue.

"She thought I'd gone mad, and refused to move, but I'd done everything. I'd even sent in her two-weeks notice, and I told her I'd move away, forge some documents to show I'm eighteen, quit school and never speak to her again."

"Did she give in?"

"She did, but she refused to speak to me for a month. It took her a year to admit that I'd given us a happier life and two to apologize for being too weak. But I think she's proud of me now."

Taken aback by the trust he had in her, she swallowed back her guilt and reached over to take his hand in hers. What an incredible man she'd met under these fucked up circumstances.

"I know she is. Did your father find you?"

"Twice," he replied, interlacing his fingers with hers. "The first time I came home to find him just starting to get into his… whatever, and I found my mother apologizing for moving, and it was the same shit in a different town, but I felt stronger, and I beat him up. I think I took him by surprise. It felt good at first to get revenge, but the feeling was temporary. He took off, I screamed at my mother for apologizing and didn't go home for three days."

She didn't know what to say. In all the screwed up situations she'd been in in her life, she had never experienced this kind of terror first hand.

"The second time he came to Harrisburg, I was home, and I didn't even let him in the door. We haven't seen him since."

He wiped back his hair and gave her an embarrassed smile. "I thought that since you shared so much, I should give you an equal piece of myself if we're going to make this work. It just took me a while."

She took his hand in both of hers, resting her head on the blue mat. "You don't owe me anything."

"I know," he said, reaching over to the switch on a wire and turned off the lamp. His voice seemed to echo, somehow, now that the light no longer blinded them, yet his tone was softer. "But I get the feeling you're a very special person."

Even though he hadn't professed his love or anything of the sort, she felt her heart tug at his words and warmth spread in her limbs. The surge of affection was followed by guilt. Nothing could and would ever happen between them, and she'd never felt so nervous yet content, but her guilt wouldn't leave.

Isabella didn't want to be one of those girls who couldn't take a compliment, but she knew that of the two of them, she most certainly wasn't the one who deserved praise.

"I get the same feeling about you."

Even in the darkness, she could see his smile, and it filled her with butterflies. Neither acknowledged the slight shift in their friendship, yet it lingered around them. Instead of taking away his hand and preventing her from rubbing his knuckles with her fingertips, he turned to face her, and kissed the back of her hand. They lay on the gym mat until midnight.

* * *

 **Translations:**

¿A ti te gusta el? — Do you like him?  
Si, papá. ¿Quién es el? — Yes, dad. Who is he?

* "Buckle your seatbelt, Dorothy, because Kansas is going bye, bye." - A quote by Cypher from _The Matrix_


	9. Kitchen

…

 **Emma Matthews**  
by Anton M.

 **Chapter 9: Kitchen  
**

…

It was a waiting game.

Isabella spent her weekend reading the book she'd borrowed, and gave it back to Isaac and Jodie on Monday morning. She cut little elves out of colored felt and hung them on doorways. She watched _Ancient Discoveries_ and _Mysteries at the Museum_ and a documentary about H. H. Holmes with Edward. He taught her self-defense. She listened to Carlisle tell Edward that Jacob was being searched for in Georgia and she started writing her (long) testimony, just in case.

It wasn't all tense. On Tuesday, a woman, perhaps Edward's age, knocked on their door, asking for help with her electricity because she'd heard that an electrician had moved here. While Isabella had been told to choose a cover occupation that she would know how to do, she hadn't asked Edward if the same applied to him. So she grinned as she watched Edward agree, imagining him pretending to know what he's doing, but when he returned ten minutes later with no hint of frustration or embarrassment, she had to nudge him as he sat on the couch next to her.

"Did she forget to plug in her computer or was her problem so complicated you had to tell her to find a real electrician?"

He narrowed his eyes, but it was playful. "She had a couple of loose backstabbed wires and some dangerously old receptacles that she should replace with GFCIs. Mostly aluminum wires, too, but that should be easy to fix with a dielectric wire nut. That's all."

She gaped.

"It's just physics," he said.

"I thought most guys became pizza boys if they had to make ends meet in school."

"Well, I did that, too."

"You're a man of many surprises."

His eyes were on the screen, but the corner of his mouth rose, and he nudged her. "Right back at you, Emma."

Like mold, maybe, or a particularly persistent vine, he grew on her. Day by day, she could tell that he felt more comfortable around her, and the more he did, the guiltier she felt. He started joking around with her in and out of the gym. Outside of the handful of friends she'd found in college, not many people had treated her as if she were normal, and the attraction his behavior evoked in her daunted her.

She often found herself observing him. On one such occasion, she was lying on the mat whereas Edward leaned against the wall, elbows resting on his knees. His eyes were closed. Sweat trickled down his temple and his muscles flexed as he continued stretching his arms, but staying in the gym after workout had become their routine, and so, neither prepared to leave.

"Why aren't you married?"

Calm as ever, he opened his eyes to look at her.

"What do you think?"

His implication was obvious—with a job like his, what kind of life could he share with a woman? But that didn't change the fact that he was a skilled, attractive 33-year-old U.S. Marshal with an open heart.

Unnerved by the intensity of his gaze, she tore her eyes from his. She hadn't allowed herself to think about this, but she couldn't help but be curious.

"Would you want to?"

"Get married?" he repeated, and when she nodded, he continued, "I don't know. Maybe. I'd like to have a family one day, but the marriage part isn't all that important to me."

"Don't women flock to your doorstep the moment they hear about your occupation?"

Wiping hair from his forehead, he laughed.

"What? It's a sexy job," she defended, slightly embarrassed.

Smiling and shaking his head, he didn't react immediately.

"I think the idea of my job is attractive at first, sure," he replied. "But it loses its appeal as they realize what the reality looks like. Not many relationships can survive a discontinuous long-distance relationship."

"Has any?"

"Not so far."

"I'm sure it's only a matter of time."

"Maybe."

She lifted her arms and stretched, pulling herself up into a bridge before she lay down again.

"What about you?" he asked.

"Do I dream of white dresses and happily ever afters? You know that I totally do." She grinned. At moments like these, she let herself forget the tension surrounding her brother's location and trust and guilt and all the other emotions that overwhelmed her. She locked eyes with Edward and had to stifle the urge to sit next to him and be closer. But she didn't trust the intensity between them. If she were to catch herself (and him) off guard and do something stupid like kiss him—even if he did feel whatever it was between them—he'd feel more betrayed than he already was going to. She didn't want to make this harder for him than it had to be.

"I don't know, really. I'm a little young to think about marriage, and either way, I don't think guys really like girls who are smarter than they are."

"That's not true."

"It is in my experience," she argued. "There was a time when I dumbed myself down for them, and they really seemed to like me when I did that, but I grew out of teenage years and now… I don't know. We'll see what life brings. I've never experienced a normal life, and I don't even know if I'd be good at it. But I guess it would be nice to have someone to love through everything, if such a love exists for me."

Still, these little moments with Edward didn't change the fact that her life was a waiting game.

At midnight, Isabella received a message from Rosalie.

 _dcp.c WGA on Mon cancelled. Be at n18ps WS on Fri 6, same time, br._

She didn't know what 328 WS meant, but she knew it had to be a store—probably in Fort Atkinson, or Rosalie would've been more specific—and googled it with Edward's phone at three AM. It was the Festival Foods grocery store they'd been to more than once, and now all she had to do was make sure that Edward wouldn't buy groceries for two days so that they'd have a reason to go there. It would be easier, for sure, than to find an excuse to visit that Walmart at 15205 West Greenfield Avenue in New Berlin.

She was unable to sleep properly.

Most days, she woke up earlier than Edward, but he usually appeared somewhere between eight and ten AM when he spent the day at home, or in time for work when he didn't. On Thursday, however, Isabella felt lonely not being able to argue over breakfast. When he hadn't emerged from his room by eleven, she knocked on his (open) door. He was lying on his stomach, probably asleep, arms underneath two pillows and head hidden between them. He was wearing underwear, and half of his blanket hung off the bed. She piled it beside him.

"Edward?"

He didn't reply.

She leaned closer. "Edward? Are you sick?"

"Mkmm," he groaned, gripped a pillow in his hand and pushed it away. He squinted at her before pulling the pillow over his face.

"Can you be quiet?" he whispered.

"This is my normal voice."

He replied with a long, grumpy, "Mmmh."

She sat beside him, watching his muscles flex, thinking. He curled into a fetal position, holding the back of his head in his hands, face pressed against the mattress between pillows. Not sure about what to do, she covered him with his blanket and kneeled beside him. It occurred to her that he might be acting—for what purpose?—but she had to consider that he was genuinely ill. He rubbed the back of his neck, groaning, before he turned his head and covered his eyes with his palm.

"You should call Varney."

"To do what?"

She answered as quietly as possible, and still, he grimaced.

"To take care of you today."

"It doesn't look like I'm the one who needs taking care of."

With every word she spoke, his expression tightened, until he took a shaky breath and pressed his face against the mattress. His voice was muffled.

"Please."

"Okay," she replied softly, shifting closer to him. "Do you have a fever?"

"No," he replied, sounding annoyed. "Migraine."

She'd always thought migraine to be a headache of sorts, but eyeing him curled up like a little kid afraid of being beaten, grimacing at the slightest noise and squinting at her as if she blasted a beam of light at him, it seemed a little more serious than that. His posture and voice, it all made him feel so vulnerable to her.

"Can you stand up?" she whispered.

"If you kill me."

"My room has roller blinds. It's dark."

He shifted but didn't move for a full minute until he slid to the edge of the bed and stood up, blanket wrapped around him. Lowering his head, he covered his eyes with his hand and started walking upstairs. He moved like a hungover baby duck, and she wanted to smile at the sight but she'd never seen a man switch from being strong-willed and protective to grumpy and in pain so quickly without alcohol being involved.

He lay down on top of her covers as she pulled down the dark blinds. His breathing evened out, and she covered him with his blanket. She returned with a huge glass of water along with Advil, Tylenol, and Aspirin. She didn't know which of those worked for him, if any of them did.

"I brought you painkillers."

It took him a minute to pull the blanket away from his face. "Advil?"

She offered him the bottle and watched as he swallowed what, to her, felt like a palmful.

"Are you trying to kill yourself?"

"It's just five," he muttered, pressing his forehead against her covers. "A thousand milligrams. Argue later."

Her affection for him hit her full-on as she watched him in pain like this, wishing she could make it better.

"Water?" she whispered.

He shook his head, curling up and holding the back of his head in his palms again. "Please leave or shut up."

He'd never been rude to her before, but, she'd never had a migraine, so she had to give him the benefit of the doubt. She left the door slightly ajar in case he needed her and went downstairs.

His migraine presented her with the perfect opportunity to take off. She couldn't have made up a more perfect scenario if she had tried, but… could she do it?

If this was the day Jacob found out about her whereabouts, she would need another pair of hands to help her get Edward out of this house. She couldn't leave him here, defenseless. But if this was yet another day with no news, Edward would not be happy when he found out she hadn't thought to protect herself. Either way, she couldn't stand the thought of taking off alone in case Jacob got her address and came on a killing spree. Would he believe Edward if he said he knew nothing? If he'd gotten over his migraine by then, he'd feel betrayed and Isabella would be responsible for his death. If he hadn't, he'd probably happily let Jacob shoot a bullet through his head.

Seth arrived at noon, and Isabella greeted him with a warm hug.

"Any news?" he asked.

"I'll take off tomorrow."

"Do you have a plan?"

"Yes."

"Good."

For the next three hours, they sat on the couch and talked. As always, she had her mobile phone in front of her in case she received the dreaded empty text message, and she was facing the stairs in case Edward decided to show his face, but neither happened, which meant that she finally had the chance to discuss her father with a person who was familiar with more than one facet of the man. Seth offered useful tips—about places and people and being on the run—and she filled a memory palace with his information. After three, she went to check on Edward and found him sleeping in the middle of her bed.

Back downstairs, she asked Seth, "Do you mind if I keep Edward company for a while?"

He stopped writing on his keyboard and eyed her. She understood the look he gave her—a man with a migraine didn't need to be kept company, but he didn't argue.

"Be careful," he said. She didn't ask what he meant.

She brought Edward's mobile phone with her, lay down beside him and played Bebbled. She carefully kept its light away from Edward and tried to avoid thinking about why she felt she needed to keep him company, but when she grew tired of the game, she put away his phone and watched him. His head was no longer covered by his blanket, and his mouth was agape. He had the slightest five o'clock shadow on his face, and she gently ran her fingers through his hair.

"I'm sorry."

Did he feel the intensity between them when they shared something at an unguarded moment? Did he wonder what their relationship could be like if they had met under different circumstances? How much would he resent her on Saturday for disappearing? Would he understand? Would he feel even a fraction of affection for her after tomorrow?

When she woke up again, it was dark outside, and a large palm surrounded hers. He wasn't holding her, but he had covered her with his blanket and he was breathing against her forehead. She felt warm, inside and out, and didn't move until she fell asleep again.

Someone hovered above her, and before she'd begun to wake up enough to assess the situation, she lunged at the person and threw him on the carpet. Her fingers pressed against a scratchy throat, and she blinked, panting. Strong, warm arms surrounded her waist, and Edward pulled her against him.

"It's okay," he whispered against her ear. "It's okay, Isabella. It's just Varney. It's okay."

She blinked, let go of Seth's throat, and took a deep breath. Seth's eyes were wide as he sat, rubbing the back of his bleeding head, and she paled, trying to convey with her eyes what she couldn't with words.

"I am so, so sorry, Seth. I didn't mean to… I'm sorry."

"Are you okay?" Edward asked, holding out a hand for Seth to take. He stood up, nodding and eyeing the spot on the carpet. He raised his eyes.

"Do you have bleach?"

Edward cleaned the carpet while Isabella did damage control to Seth's head. It bled very little, but he would have a bump the next day.

She stood in the hallway as he put on his shoes.

"I really am sorry. I didn't mean to hurt you."

"Don't fuss about it," he replied, getting into his coat. "At least we know you can't be killed in your sleep."

She smiled weakly.

"Take good care of yourself," he muttered, picked up his laptop case and shook hands with her. He left. Still stunned, Isabella returned to Edward's side and kneeled on the carpet beside him.

"It happened once with my roommate, too," she said, watching him rub bleach on the light carpet. "It was only a few days after Jacob tried to strangle me. I scared her, but she assured me she wasn't hurt. It definitely proved to her how much the entire night had affected me."

He squeezed her wrist. "It's not your fault."

Isabella helped Edward make dinner and they watched _The Brain That Changes Itself_ before an uninteresting TV show made her turn the TV on mute. Their arms brushed against each other, but neither moved. It was ten PM, and she didn't want to go. She didn't want to go to sleep, she didn't want to leave him, she just didn't want tomorrow to arrive. She would be fine, of course. She would be tense, watching over her shoulder, programming and traveling on most days, but she would be fine, physically.

She would miss Edward, intensely. She already did. She would miss watching _Modern Marvels_ with him, she would miss having him breathe on her neck as he pinned her on the mat and taught her to defend herself, she would miss seeing him in glasses. She would miss… him. Everything about him.

Would he forgive her?

She played with the edge of her shirt, embarrassed by her question, but she couldn't _not_ ask it, not on their last night together. She might never see him again after tomorrow.

"Would you mind spending the night in my room?"

His gaze felt gentle but intense, and he gave her a nod. She turned on the alarm while he switched off all their lamps, and she didn't bother to separate blankets as she crawled underneath them. He joined her, offering his hand to her without a word. She took it. He didn't explain his migraine and she didn't explain her request. Perhaps he had been waiting for it, seeing that, on most nights, she slept worse than he did. She didn't know and she didn't ask. Surprisingly, he fell asleep before her, and she watched him sleep for most of the night, dreaming up unrealistic scenarios for his reaction and her future. At four AM, she snuck downstairs, wrote him a letter and hid it inside one of her elves.

She didn't have to convince him to go to the store because their fridge was empty, but he did eye her when she told him she needed to go to the bathroom.

"If you take more than three minutes, I'm coming after you."

"Fair enough," she replied, wishing she could hug him or kiss him or, at least, apologize, but she simply offered a tight-lipped smile and entered the bathroom. It was 11:56. Silently, she started whistling the tune to the Flintstones, and an elderly lady opened a stall door. Seeing as nobody was around, Isabella went in and locked the door. The woman, curly-haired and maybe 70 years of age, opened her backpack and gave her two passports, two driving licenses, a gun that Isabella tucked under her pants, and a wad of cash.

"Your father would've been proud."

She nodded, squeezing the lady's arm. "Thank you."

She left the stall, eyeing the high window for a second, deciding against it. She had a passport and a driving license for Edward, too, and even if he grew to hate her, she needed him to be protected. She'd left her amulet at home, anyway, and she could leave after midnight.

Isabella felt nervous, sitting beside Edward as they drove home, and tried not to show it. She felt her phone buzz once as he pulled the car up in front of their house, and as he exited the car to grab a grocery bag, she checked her phone. She had three empty messages.

Fuck.

Why three? Was Jacob close already? In Wisconsin? In Milwaukee? On his way to Fort Atkinson?

She had to get Edward to leave with her, and they had to leave right the fuck now. They could part ways ten minutes later, but he had to leave with her.

"Emma?" Edward asked, standing in front of her, a grocery bag tucked under his arm.

"Sorry, sorry," she apologized, closing the car door and walking up to the front door behind him. He put the grocery bag on their kitchen table and turned around. She'd started to make an excuse to go upstairs, but he tilted his head on the side, walking up to her until he stood a foot from her. Attempting to gauge his expression, she retreated, but he backed her up against the wall and slammed his flat palm against the wall next to her face.

"How stupid, exactly, do you think I am?"

She attempted to wriggle out of his grasp, but he pressed himself against her, sneaking his arm under her sweatshirt and pulling out her gun.

"You're not the only one who can spot a gun from a mile away, Isabella."

He held her in place with his body, checking the gun, and raised his eyes to meet hers. His were filled with anger, betrayal, and so much pain it hurt her to see it. She closed her eyes.

"A loaded gun, huh. So that's your grand plan. To kill me and take off? You could've just used one of my guns."

She could feel him lift his arm, and as a snap decision, she grabbed his wrist. Heart beating wildly in her chest, she held the gun against her temple. If he was going to kill her, she wanted it to be painless.

"Do it. It's okay. I'm sorry."

The gun wasn't cocked, but it was loaded, and he tore it from her grip and threw it in the hallway. He breathed against her face, nose nearly touching hers, and growled. "Are you out of your _fucking_ mind? You do not share your family history with me and make me toy with your life! You do not get to play that card, Isabella. Why did you agree to be in witness protection if you did not trust me to keep you safe?"

"I've always trusted you."

" _Bullshit._ "

"I have."

"All these secret meetings in bathrooms were because you _trusted_ me?" He tightened his grip. He didn't hurt her, physically, but she'd never seen him so angry. So hurt. "You looked me in the eye and told me you wouldn't betray me. I _trusted_ you. I told you about my life, my own, my _real_ life, and you just shove it up my ass like it meant _nothing_ to you. Do you have any idea how that feels?!"

"I'm sorry. I trust you. It's Carlisle I don't trust."

"Do you make a habit out of lying to my face?"

"No. I did what I had to do."

" _Explain_."

"I will, I will. I promise. But we don't have time to do it now. Jacob finally knows my address, and he's on his way here, right now."

His eyes were searching, intense, and filled with hurt. She lowered her eyes.

"Jacob hadn't found me yet not because he didn't have the potential to know where we were. Because he did. He hasn't been here because he and Carlisle couldn't come to an agreement. But now they have."

"You're wrong." His face was white, but he was resolute. "You're wrong. He's a good man. Carlisle is like a father to me."

"I'm sorry."

"You're lying."

"I wish I were."

"Why should I believe you?"

"Jacob will kill you if you don't," she replied, feeling the pain she'd caused him like it were her own, but they couldn't stay and argue. Not if they wanted to live. "I never meant to hurt you. I did what I had to do to have the evidence, and now I do. I'll explain, and you're free to resent me for the rest of your life. You can leave me in a gas station or the side of the road, anywhere, just please, _please_ listen to me when I say we need to leave right now."


	10. Crocodile's Mouth

…

 **Emma Matthews**  
by Anton M.

 **Chapter 10:** **Crocodile's Mouth  
**

…

The front door clicked closed.

Edward couldn't tell the difference between his heartbeat and hers as he reached for his gun and put his finger against her lips.

He cocked it.

"Emma?"

Seth faced a loaded gun after rounding the corner. He raised his arms, eyeing them.

"Whoa."

Edward lowered his gun.

"Why are you still here?" Seth asked, throwing his car keys at Isabella. She caught them. "This one is not in a registry, but I thought you'd be gone."

Edward stared at Seth, surprise and distress written on his face.

"I called the police," Seth continued. "They'll be here in minutes. You better be gone by the time they arrive."

Isabella hesitated. Edward's semi-pale, aggrieved expression revealed intensity she felt responsible for, but she didn't have time to call a truce. She ran upstairs, pocketed her amulet—she had her testimony folded in her shoe—and returned downstairs to see Edward holding Seth in a hammerlock against the floor.

"—to talk? Really? I can be _convincing_."

"Edward."

He looked up, expression unchanged, and let go of Seth. Both men stood up.

"I can't believe _Varney_ —"

"Yell later," she cut him off. "Leave _now_."

Edward gaped as she hugged Seth.

" _What in_ _the_ —"

"With or without you, I will leave," Isabella said. "You can stay and wait for the police, but I'm going. You have five seconds to join me."

Isabella opened the front door. Even in the moments Edward wasn't yelling or holding her against the wall, she saw the silent outrage in his eyes. It would be better to leave him behind so that he'd be safe, or at least safer than he would be with her. His presence would complicate her plans. But as she walked to the car, she also felt an intense sense of loss and dread. If Jacob discovered that Edward was the man who had kept her safe, he might be under the false impression that Edward knew of her whereabouts and go after him. She couldn't let that happen.

Did Edward really not want answers at least enough to ride with her for an hour?

But just as she reached for her back pocket to give Edward his fake driving license and passport, he jogged after her and sat in the passenger seat without a word. She raised her arm as a goodbye to Seth and pulled away from the driveway, but instead of acknowledging Seth, Edward threw the backpack he'd grabbed on the backseat. She was under no impression that he'd be any less angry just because he'd agreed to come with her. He was tense.

To break the silence, she said, "I hope the police is smart enough not to use their own cars."

Rigid and apprehensive, Edward gave her the side-eye. A mere minute passed before blaring sirens passed them.

"Jacob will be totally blindsided with four police cars in front of the house we lived in. Christ."

Still, Edward said nothing.

Isabella turned to Highway 26. The leaves had mostly fallen in the two weeks they'd been here, and both watched the bare trees pass by. It started raining.

She turned the heating on. Seconds later, he turned it down.

"Why did you tell me you trusted Carlisle with your life?"

"Technically—"

"I'm not in the mood for semantics. Why?"

"It's what you needed to hear."

He scoffed. "Why did you enter the witness program in a team directly supervised by him if you did not trust him?"

"I needed him to think that I did. If he had known that I didn't trust him, he would've let my brother know. If he had let my brother know, my brother would've had my apartment crawling with his underlings even before dad was buried."

"Why would you even suspect him of selling you out to Jacob? Why would he even know him? And even if he did, why would you think it isn't some kind of a ploy to get him? What kind of evidence do you have and where did you get it?"

"Do you want me to actually answer your questions or do you just like asking them?"

Unamused and brimming with fury, he did not smile. "You promised to explain. _Explain_."

He was unsuccessful in suppressing his emotions, and she could nearly feel him boil beside her.

"My father was a… supremely secretive man. Nobody could hold secrets the way he did."

She could swear Edward rolled his eyes.

"He was number three in FBI's most wanted list, Isabella. I know."

"That's not what I'm saying. He kept secrets in every facet of his life. He kept secrets from me and from Jacob, and he built our future in a way that would support either of us if one of us turned out… well, if one of us turned into who Jacob is."

"Who would prepare for such a thing?"

"Someone who thinks that my mother's genes and the unique if… admittedly stressful environment we grew up in had the potential to make or break us. He saw people who lost their sanity in bloody and unpleasant circumstances. I don't think he ever said this in so many words, but I think I understood his intentions."

Edward took a breath. He intertwined his fingers behind his neck and stared in his lap. "How is this relevant?"

"Carlisle is Jacob's godfather."

He jerked upright. "I don't believe you."

"I don't care if you believe me."

"You're lying. It's not possible. Someone would have known, someone would have noticed, someone would have dug up _something_ …"

"And people _have_. But there are connections and a way to influence people. Money is good. Power is better. Give people both, and they'll sell their soul. So yes, there are a few businessmen and journalists to who this is not news."

"Whom."

He corrected her so automatically that she startled and stared at him.

"Neither of them know that I know, and it's the only thing that's kept me alive so far."

He looked shaken and nauseated, and if she wasn't afraid that he'd start screaming at her, she'd have asked if he was okay.

"All right. Let's say that by some miracle, everyone who knew about this has been successfully kept silent. Why would Carlisle help your brother now?"

"Because they have a history of helping each other. Because Carlisle has covered up some of his... nauseating material. Minor things, too, money laundering, corruption, perjury. But mostly he'd help my brother because, when I was working with the DEA and uncovered money laundering from drugs and the people associated with it, he saw the potential I had to discover and prove _his_ connection to… everyone a Supervisory Deputy should not be associated with."

"I don't believe you."

"I don't care."

"Carlisle has helped me in seriously grim situations."

"Just because you're going through the first stage of grief doesn't mean that what I'm saying isn't true."

"I'm not grieving anyone."

"Yeah, well, the Kübler-Ross model has been associated with a learning theory, so I rest my case."

"What are you talking about?"

"Spending a lot of time believing something to have your belief proven wrong produces the same… you know what? Never mind."

She eyed him. He was frowning and rubbing his face, looking like he was willing away a headache.

"Carlisle is a good man."

"I didn't tell you he wasn't."

"You did."

"No, I didn't. He might as well be a good man, I don't know. Clearly, he used to be friends with my father. But he's a good man in whose best interest it is to make sure Jacob has the means to kill me. Because I have the means to destroy Carlisle."

"Why should I believe you?"

She groaned.

"You wanted answers, but now that I'm giving them to you, you don't believe me. The fact is, it was in Carlisle's best interest to be in charge of the team responsible for me and to always know my location. He needed to make sure that, once he and Jacob made a deal, he could pass on my whereabouts and walk away with clean hands."

Edward pursed his lips in a tight line.

"Why, then, did you want to be updated on our backup plans?"

"I needed to know which states to avoid."

He was tightly wound. There wasn't a hint of kindness in his eyes, but his anger had started to deflate. And for the first time since getting in the car, he seemed to acknowledge that they were driving on I-94 toward Milwaukee.

"Where are we going?"

"Mitchell airport."

"Are you _out of your mind_?"

"I can leave you anywhere you want before that. You can even have the car."

"Isabella…" he warned. "An airport is—"

"Insanely reckless. I'm aware. But Jacob thinks I'm too careful for that, which is exactly why I'm driving towards a crocodile mouth while his eyes are looking elsewhere."

"It's dangerous."

"Yeah, well, I could occupy a valley on Mars and Jacob might still have some underlings on a Mars drone. I don't think you realize the scope of my father's networking system. He couldn't have stayed out of the radar for eleven years without having some serious connections. Some of them can be trusted. The problem is, I don't know which people are now loyal to Jacob."

"If what you say is true, why didn't Carlisle give you over to Jacob right away?"

"I don't know. Maybe he didn't want Jacob to know that my brother would be doing him a favor. It would've been too obvious if he'd wanted to get rid of me at any price, and he couldn't give Jacob that kind of power. It's more likely that Carlisle wanted Jacob to feel like _Carlisle_ was doing him a favor. That way, he could _ask_ for more instead of _being_ asked for more. Now, Jacob owes him."

"How do you know Seth?"

"I think it's better for everyone involved if I don't answer that question."

" _What_?" He scowled, clearly annoyed. "You promised to explain."

"And I will. I am. But this one, I can't. I'm not refusing because I want to annoy you, I'm refusing to protect you and Seth… and myself. If it comes down to a testimony, I want you to be able to answer honestly without forcing you to commit perjury to save my life… assuming, of course, that you want to keep me alive."

He didn't look happy, but he didn't argue, either.

"How do you know Jacob knows you're in Wisconsin?"

"He met your boss in Ohio."

"And how do you know that?"

"I have friends who are _very_ smart."

"Why is this the first time I'm hearing about any of this? You could've told me the first night in that hotel."

"Don't pretend like you would've believed me. In fact, I'm pretty sure you would've told Carlisle about your concerns. So, no, I couldn't tell you before I had the evidence."

"And do you?"

"You should watch the news tonight. If you don't believe me yet, tonight's news might convince you."

He narrowed his eyes. "What did you do?"

"That's irrelevant."

"What did you do, Isabella?"

"I haven't forgotten your occupation, Edward, and if you're sitting on a chair with your hand on the bible, you can always say that you do not know and still speak the truth."

He took a deep breath and let it out, slowly. "What are you preparing for, exactly? How many laws did you break? Did Varney help you?"

"Do you want answers to all three questions? I don't admit to anything, I don't admit to anything, and I don't admit to anything. There you go, I answered."

"Christ." He wiped hair from his forehead and closed his eyes, appearing exhausted. "You're saying you could end up in jail."

"Edward, I'm a twenty two year old student whose brother has put a hit out on her. Proving or not proving money laundering and corruption in the government by using or not using illegal measures is quite tame when you recognize the fact that a Supervisory Deputy Marshal _in charge of_ my safety revealed my address to the criminal who put a hit out on me. In the hypothetical case that my name might or might not be tied to anything I might or might not have done, I think getting thrown in jail is the least of my worries. I would even go so far as to say that jail might keep me safer were it not for the fact that my brother's been there. Hypothetically."

Edward's eyes were lighter, but he seemed conflicted and tense as he stared at her, not saying a word. Isabella parked the car in front of a mall away from a camera—it had become second nature for her to avoid them—and took his driving license and passport out of her pocket.

"Here."

Frowning, he accepted the documents. His hair was photoshopped to look short and black, and the name next to his picture read Lewis Sutton, 35, from Burlington, Vermont.

Hers gave her the name Sara Christine Sutton, 23, from Bangor, Maine. Rosalie must've thought Edward would come with her, but it didn't really matter. Jacob wouldn't expect them to have the same last name twice in a row, and even if he did, she could change her name the moment she reached her destination.

"Despite what you think of me right now, I know that you did a lot for me and I want you to be safe. Jacob doesn't know that you don't know where I'm going, and I suggest that you stay low for a while. As low as you can, for your own safety."

Isabella pulled her hair in a pony-tail and covered her head with a hoodie as she waited for him to speak. He threw the documents on top of the console, unbuckled his seatbelt, and kept rubbing his eyes. She wished she could show how sorry she was for tricking him, but judging by his tense shoulders, he might've yelled at her if she attempted to hug him.

She watched people hold umbrellas and push carts past their car. Normal lives like that had never felt more distant.

"I'm not asking you to forgive me. It's okay if it takes a while for you to accept what I told you. Eventually, though, you'll get a new boss and move on."

She pulled the door handle, but he gripped her wrist.

"So this is it?"

"You have no legal grounds to arrest me. Witness protection is a voluntary system, and being able to walk away at any moment is part of the deal."

Holding on to her wrist, he searched her eyes, and she closed the door, staying in the car. She couldn't begin to decipher his expression.

"You can't do this alone."

"Maybe. And if you're right, I'll be dead in a ditch somewhere obscure before the day is over." She gave him a bittersweet smile. "You once told me that you think Jacob has contacts in places you hope are exaggerated. I told you they're not, and I meant it. I suggest you cut off your hair and dye it. Stay low. It will take a while, but things will blow over eventually regardless of whether or not I make it."

"You need help."

"Are you offering?"

Edward's eyes pierced hers, and he straightened his back. His lips were in a grim line, but she could see that he had started to consider the possibility that she might be right.

"What's your plan?"

"Hypothetically?" she clarified.

"Hypothetically."

She considered leaving, but she'd already told him so much, and she hadn't lied when she told him that she trusted him. She did. His worldview had more contrast than hers, he believed in the right and the wrong and not the in-between while she thought herself to be in-between with nearly everything she believed in.

"There might or might not be more judges and high government officials whose illegal verbal and written business might or might not be sent to the FBI and journalists, with delay, all over the country."

He blinked at her, taking it all in. She felt like she'd turned his world upside-down.

"In this hypothetical world, could these potential information leaks lead back to you?"

"Hypothetically, no, but there's always a statistical probability that someone I've trusted might or might not uncover my hypothetical involvement."

Rain poured on their wind shield as he stared at her.

"But as far as Deputy Marshal Edward Anthony Masen knows, his boss has just been proven to be involved in uncovering a 22-year-old student's address to a fugitive."

Amused by his choice of words, she smiled in spite of herself.

"That is correct."

"And the only way the 22-year-old in question could stay alive is if said Marshal keeps her safe."

"Correct."

He grabbed his backpack from the backseat. His eyes revealed his exhaustion, and while he didn't appear happy, there was no mistaking the determination on his face. She squeezed his arm. She felt relieved that she'd have company and yet anxious to take Edward with her. Would it be worth it? Did his willingness to discuss this as if it were a hypothetical option mean that she should, in fact, trust him? She already did, but that didn't mean that she should.

They ran to the mall in the rain, leaving the car behind. It was a Friday Fish Fry, an occasion neither of them was familiar with, and they ate lunch in a hurry. Neither said much. He was still angry, and she knew he'd keep asking and arguing and wanting to understand her, but it felt like they'd called a temporary truce. He might've seen the world in black-and-white, but she'd underestimated his sense of justice. Her means might have been questionable, but her intentions were not.

He cut and dyed his hair black in a hair salon while she found a store on another floor that sold wigs. She bought one, and found a bathroom where she called her roommate.

"Rosalie."

Isabella had a lot to say and more to ask, but now was not the time.

"I need eyes on Blue's sister and mother."

"Are you okay?"

"Yes. Can you make sure they're safe?"

"It's done."

"Thank you."

She covered her head with a long-haired, light brown wig, put on the glasses she'd bought and left the bathroom.

How dangerous would it be to allow Edward to join her? Would it be fair of her to ask him to turn a blind eye to the "hypothetical" hacking she was about to do? If he was, indeed, trustworthy, it would be selfish of her to ask him to suppress his law-abiding nature. If he wasn't, she'd be screwed. Either way, she couldn't win.

Edward watched absent-mindedly as the hairdresser blow-dried his inch-long hair, asking him irrelevant questions about how he liked it and if he needed hair products. Impatient to leave, he dismissed his questions.

He couldn't to force back his anger. He'd known Carlisle for ten years. Carlisle had taught and helped and guided Edward, he'd even saved his life once. How could he have turned out to be exactly like Charlie? Was Isabella right not to tell him straight away? Part of him refused to believe her, but another part recognized the length to which she had gone to run away, with or without him.

Finished at the salon, he rushed downstairs to join Isabella where they'd agreed to meet, but she wasn't there. He circled the area. He stepped into a store that sold wigs and he waited outside of the bathrooms, but she was nowhere to be found. Growing increasingly uneasy, he made another circle around the area with the same result.

She'd either taken off without him, or she'd been caught off guard by her brother's underlings.

Edward walked to the exit and found their car parked on the same spot on the edge of the parking lot.

Where was she?

His mobile phone rang, and Carlisle's name flashed on the screen.

"Anthony Matthews."

"Jacob is thought to be heading for Mexico."

At which point in their argument had Edward decided that he believed Isabella? It could've been the fear and determination in her eyes, or the detailed answers she gave him which would've been difficult to make up on the spot. She hadn't even given him evidence, and maybe it was a gut feeling, but at one point in their argument, he'd started to trust her side of the story. He didn't want to, but the information she gave him made too much sense.

"Thanks for letting us know."

Did Carlisle call to make sure Isabella was still safely in Fort Atkinson? Had he exaggerated the confidence they had in Jacob's location when he was rumored to be far from Wisconsin but downplayed it when he might've been close? Had he chosen Edward because he was such a loyal employee Carlisle trusted Edward to let him know if Isabella was up to something? Is that why Carlisle had handpicked him for the job?

Edward felt deceived, and he didn't like it.

"Are you home? Do you have company?"

Was he making sure that Jacob wouldn't be disappointed when he arrived?

"Yes," he lied, knowing he'd answered with his name. "No company. Just being careful."

"Good. As always, let me know if you think she's up to something."

"Of course, sir."

He searched the area with increasing anxiety. Considering the alternative, he hoped that Isabella had taken off without him, but either option didn't appeal to him. Keeping his composure, he walked through all the places they'd been in, eyeing every passing person with her height, and found nobody.

He was in the middle of calling a cab when someone tapped his elbow. Turning, he was looking at a brown-haired girl in glasses. She wore lipstick. When he realized the woman was Isabella, he disconnected his call.

Before he realized what he was doing, he'd pulled her against him and let out a sigh.

"You nearly gave me a heart attack."

"I'm sorry."

"I thought they got you, or that you left."

"I almost did."

He took a few steps toward the wall to stay out of people's way, and stepped away from her.

"Why did you come back?"

"I need a pair of eyes in the back of my head."

He took a tendril of her light brown wig between his fingers, taking in her new appearance. She'd changed into a dress and heeled boots, and it was the least Isabella-like attire he'd seen her wear, but it suited her. It suited her perhaps a little too much.

He took her neck in his hands before whispering in her ear.

"If you're lying about Carlisle, I will arrest you."

She looked up at him. Her gaze didn't falter. "Fair enough."

"But don't leave without telling me."

"Okay."

She touched his hair. It was short and black and something to get used to, and he closed his eyes. They seemed to have reached another milestone in their friendship, not just one of sharing information but of trust, real trust, and the world faded away.

"Can I trust you?" she whispered.

It was a question he'd asked her many times. He was still angry. He was still hurt. He still felt betrayed. But he was starting to understand that—if she was right, and she seemed to be—his unquestionable dedication to Carlisle and his job had been something for Carlisle to exploit. He had to take a step back, turn around, and reassess where his loyalties lay.

"Yes."

She searched his eyes, and even if he were lying, it was a chance she had to take. She could easily survive on her own, but she couldn't hope to spend her time programming while keeping an eye out for herself. She didn't have enough eyes for everything she intended to do.

They bought Edward khaki pants and a brown cardigan, two items of clothing he disliked in colors he never wore.

They took a cab.

It was impossible to forget the urgency of the situation at the airport the way they had forgotten it at the mall because the crocodile's mouth was big, its teeth were numerous, and Isabella kept recognizing people. But Edward cooperated smoothly with her as they bought tickets to Portland, Oregon with a layover in Denver. She enjoyed the recombobulation area in Mitchell Airport, but she didn't feel like she could openly show her smile or even her face to anyone. She felt paranoid. In her haste to look as little like her usual self as possible, she had chosen a daring set of clothes, and she felt eyes linger on her as they walked to their gate. The crowd that filled the area in front of their gate made disappearing easier, but still, she felt uneasy.

Maybe it would've been a bold move if they hadn't been playing a married couple (again), but she unzipped his jacket and wrapped her arms around him, hiding her face in his chest. Saying nothing, he surrounded her with his arms and slowly swayed back and forth. He lowered his head so that his lips brushed against her wig.

"You look like a nerd's dream."

She snorted a silent laugh against his chest, flattered yet embarrassed that he'd noticed.

"I didn't mean to," she whispered back.

"I know."

It was easier to keep hiding her face in his chest, so that's exactly what she did. He didn't protest. She felt like they had an easy-going switch they could turn on in public whenever they needed, and because her life depended on not being recognized, hiding her face against him was a mild enough thing to do.

They didn't have time to do anything but look for their gate in Denver. To avoid being followed, both took notice of how many people switched to the same flight to Portland, but the ones who did seemed to disperse after finding their luggage. It was nine PM as they stood outside the airport. The weather was cloudy and windy but dry.

Nobody had followed them. Not many people had even talked to them, and people only seemed to take notice of them because Isabella looked like she was on her way to a party. The safety they'd reached felt deceptive, and she couldn't quite believe their luck. Judging by his expression, neither could he.

It took them twenty minutes to reach the Park Lane Suites & Inn they decided to spend the night in. They hadn't booked anything, but Halloween had passed and Thanksgiving was three weeks away, so it wasn't difficult to get a room.

She regretted her decision to change her clothing so drastically and had to wrap herself in a towel after taking a shower. Edward sat on the side of the bed, facing the TV, and turned up the volume when she sat beside him.

"— _similar reports from the NBC and CNN, and the anonymous source has yet to be determined. What is known so far is that countless archives and documents tie Senators Ramon Torres and Harriet Robertson, Federal Judge Dwight Shaw Daniels and District Attorney John B. Miller to human trafficking, numerous incidents of bribery and money laundering. FBI Deputy Director Phillip G. Schultz confirmed two hours ago that the same reports were sent to his work computer, but he refused to speculate who could have hacked into a government-protected computer to reveal the controversial material, and the punishment for such a crime."_

Edward unbuttoned his cardigan and took off his T-shirt, offering it to Isabella. "I'm sorry I don't have an extra."

As much as she wanted to tell him that he didn't have to, the alternative would have been to sleep in her underwear.

"Thank you," she replied. "I'm sorry. Stress makes me careless. I should've remembered."

"Don't worry about it."

Now bare-chested, he rested elbows on his knees. She pulled his T-shirt over her head and slid off her towel, piling it on her lap. She threw her wig on the bedside table.

"— _saw a scandal of this magnitude when crime lord El Camaleón's daughter Isabella Areli Swan cooperated with the DEA to reveal the involvement of Congressman Alfred F. Schroeder, Judge Melvin Hatfield and eleven administration officers in drug trafficking and the resulting money laundering._ _FBI Deputy Director Schultz_ _could not confirm Miss Swan's current whereabouts, but considering the evidence against Supervisory Deputy Marshal Carlisle Cullen and his highly controversial meeting with Isabella's brother Jacob outside of Lancaster, Ohio, it is a sad truth that she might already be Jacob's next victim. We have not been able to reach Marshal Carlisle Cullen and it is being suggested that he might have escaped from Washington D.C altogether."_

Edward crossed his legs underneath him, looking like he had aged ten years. He ran fingers through his hair, resting his temple against his palm, and eyed her.

"I'm sorry I did not believe you."

"It's okay."

" _Can we speculate at this point in time if Isabella Swan entered the Witness Protection and if she could have done so under the supervision of Marshal Carlisle Cullen? University of Baltimore considers her to be enrolled in High Technology Crime in Forensic Science, but her classmates revealed that she has not been in any of her swimming practices or classes for two full weeks, and—"_

Edward stared at the screen. "Do they want to get you _killed_?!"

"They're just doing their job."

"By telling the world you might be in Witness Protection because your life is in danger? Fucking _geniuses_."

"— _is expected to give her testimony in four months on February 22, 2016, but this scandal might complicate the issue even more. Is it possible that Isabella might have evidence against these people? It appears that the two incidents are connected as_ _District Attorney John B. Miller_ _and_ _Congressman Alfred F. Schroeder_ _appear to have made written agreements regarding sharing the income from illegal drug trading that has happened for the past five years. Even so, seeing that Supervisory Deputy Marshal Carlisle Cullen revealed Isabella's location to her fugitive brother, the fact that none of her friends appear to know her location is more than worrying, and various support groups have popped up on social media, particularly on Facebook, the members of which promise to give shelter to the —"_

Edward glanced at her, eyebrows raised. "Turns out we can go couch-surfing if we run out of money."

In spite of the situation, Isabella laughed.

"— _enormity of the situation,_ _FBI Deputy Director Phillip Gerard Schultz_ _has joined us tonight."_

Edward muted the TV when the camera returned to the studio.

"Whitlock called me when you were taking a shower."

"What did you tell him?"

"I told him I'd call him tomorrow. I wanted to make sure I spoke to you first."

Flattered by his (growing) trust in her, she gave him a small smile. "Thank you."

"He knows the information came from Carlisle's computer, but he doesn't understand how it could have been you, considering I've monitored you for the past two weeks."

"What did you tell him?"

"That I'd call him tomorrow."

"Is he involved in anything Carlisle is involved in?"

"I was going to ask you. You seem more informed than I am."

"I don't know. I can't say that I particularly liked him the one time we met, but I've seen no evidence against him. I think he might've been just as blindsided as you were."

Edward breathed a sigh of relief, squeezing her hand as he got up. "I'll go take a shower."

Isabella sat in the middle of the bed, legs curled underneath her, and sniffed Edward's T-shirt. There was no sign of soap or musk, only remnants of his aftershave. She liked his natural smell. If safety had a smell, it would've smelled like Edward.

Embarrassed by her moment of girliness, she got up, laid her towel on the back of a chair, and took out her mobile phone.

 _33_ , she wrote in her text message, but staring at the two digits, she reconsidered and deleted it. Not a single person outside of Edward could know where she was. She trusted Rosalie, but… she'd be safer if Rosalie didn't know.

She was playing Bebbled when Edward returned from shower in his boxer-briefs. He had a lean, defined body, and for some ridiculous reason, she felt embarrassed to be caught looking at him. He motioned for her to get up when he separated covers from the blanket, and piled the latter on her side of the bed. Lying down, she gave him back his phone.

He switched off the TV.

They needed to discuss a plethora of issues: the history of their new identities, a laptop that she needed, the fact that she'd been talking to Rosalie or that she'd assigned body-guards to his sister and mother and they didn't even know it. She should tell him about her intention to anonymously crash a Christmas party of a _G. Koch Inc._ that (if successful) would give her evidence against yet another corrupted individual. She was threading on a thin line, using legally questionable measures to reveal illegal business. But for bribery to happen, a palm had to exist to accept that money.

No, her father hadn't been an angel. He'd made bad decisions and he'd lived a questionable life. But for men like her father to thrive, a society had to exist that let her father be like that. If her father had to be punished for his crimes, which there were many, the palms eager for his money and support had to receive the same treatment.

"There's a person missing from their list. There's many, of course, but one in particular interests me."

She could see his eyes twinkle in the darkness when he turned to look at her.

"Who?"

"The current Director of the FBI, Marion B. Pasquier."

He shuffled with his blanket, and his voice came a bit closer than it had before.

"You really don't mess around with this, do you?"

"It was my father's last wish that I do this. I wanted to reveal their crimes, of course. But it didn't take a lot to convince him."

"Why?"

"Because… there are factors in the game you're unaware of, Edward."

He scoffed. "Why don't you enlighten me, then?"

"I will," she replied. "I promise I will, but not tonight."

Impatient and annoyed by her cryptic statement, he sighed. "Fine."

Isabella recoiled toward her pillow. She didn't want to annoy him. She just wanted to make sure he wouldn't blame her death on himself if she'd failed to hide her identity or if Seth or Rosalie or anyone at all turned against her. Because if anyone did, she'd be dead. Neither his black belt in Krav Maga nor his precise shooting could prevent that.

She knew how childish it was of her to expect him to hold her hand every night, so she turned away from him and rested her head against her palms. He'd never mocked her for wanting to hold his hand to sleep, but she knew it was stupid of her to need it. "Good night."


	11. Chrysler 200

…

 **Emma Matthews**  
by Anton M.

 **Chapter 11: Chrysler 200**

…

Through her semi-sleep, Isabella could feel the bed dip before Edward put his arm around her on top of the blanket and snuggled against her. She opened her eyes. As with any city, the streetlights didn't allow complete darkness, creating striped shadows of their blinds on the ceiling instead. Edward's breath ghosted over her neck, and his arms felt warm and safe. She shut her eyes.

"Are you awake?" he whispered so quietly she could barely hear him.

"Yes. I—"

Edward pressed two fingers against her mouth under the blanket. "We're being watched."

His feet were cold. He'd been walking around.

She moved just enough to lower herself under the blankets and turn her head so that Edward could speak straight in her ear in case they were being listened to, too.

"How do you know?"

He wrapped his palm around her folded fists, pulled her to face him, and lowered his head on the mattress, the way she had. He covered himself with her blanket and lifted it to hide their cheeks.

"I saw a small camera on top of the lamp when I went to the bathroom, but there might be more."

"Are they listening?"

Her voice was barely a whisper.

"I don't know."

But they couldn't _not_ communicate, they just had to hope they weren't being overheard and keep their voices as low as possible.

"Did you look straight in the camera?"

"It was reflected in the mirror."

She brushed her thumb against his knuckles, heartbeat pulsing in her ears as she brainstormed.

"Your cell?" she whispered, feeling mildly nauseated. Edward's phone had been on airplane mode as she played with it, but she'd barely registered that she shouldn't have been holding his phone at all.

And Jasper had called. How tired had they been?

"It's encrypted by a third party."

So trusting the system hadn't prevented Edward from being a little paranoid. Nevertheless, a tiny error in judgement could have grave consequences for them.

"Not well enough, clearly."

It wasn't necessarily his phone that had given them away, but she couldn't check if it had been encrypted well enough to keep the location of his phone a secret. If they'd been recognized at the Mitchell Airport, their destination city and state had been known and their cover blown. That's the only way Carlisle or Jacob could've traced them to the Pacific Northwest. All Carlisle or Jacob and their employees had to do was to make sure their taxi driver was determined by them. From that point on, their destination room was easy to manipulate with.

But there was no time to be mad by his shock or her stress or the tense situation in general that had prevented her from being on top of her game. She was curious to know if it was Jacob or Carlisle whose people had found them (or if they cooperated at this point), but it didn't matter. All that mattered was hitting the road and not leaving a trace for anyone to follow.

"Where's your phone now?"

He slid her hand under his pillow, where a battery and two pieces of his Android lay.

"I would've put it in the sink but I don't know what they can or cannot see."

"This works better," she whispered. "We'll take it with us."

They could use it to distract Carlisle or Jacob by making sure it was switched on and putting it on a vehicle moving away from them. It would be a simple and silly action, but doing it might buy time as they shrugged off the presence of whoever had the connections to watch them in a random hotel in Oregon.

And every minute brought the eyes of the cameras closer to them.

"Ratchett?" she asked.

"Yes."

"Now?"

"If we act immediately or block their view, they'll know we know."

Either choice would be risky. If they got dressed at this second and left in the middle of the night, they'd have someone either drawing a gun on them or trailing them. If they waited until the morning, they'd have the advantage of having everyone awake which would make it harder for anyone to kill them (and hide the fact), but it would also offer either of their pursuers more time to catch up with them.

"I think we should leave soon," she said.

"Not without a plan."

The slightest tick, distant footsteps and passing voices behind the door suddenly felt suspicious. Both listened. Edward breathed on her cheek and she didn't let go of his hand, and they spent the next hour huddling under the blanket, whispering. They were aware of every crack and footstep as they discussed their plan.

The fact that nobody had killed them yet while knowing their location meant that either Edward or Isabella had information they wanted. It was most likely that the person who knew, be it Jacob or Carlisle or both, wanted to keep an eye on them before making a move. It was a little comforting to know that they were wanted alive.

But having discussed it with Edward, Isabella knew that the person watching them was Carlisle. It had to be. If it were Jacob, the person who had installed those cameras would've shot them the moment they opened the door.

 _Bam, bam_ , game over.

Jacob wasn't a movie type of villain. He would never tie her in a chair, circling around her while discussing his vile plans to take over the world (of drug trafficking). He didn't want to explain himself or justify his actions in her eyes. He wouldn't care. He just wanted her dead.

Carlisle, however, as much as she didn't know him, might've had other intentions. Maybe he hadn't revealed to Jacob where they were—this time—because he wanted her to clear his name before offering Jacob the means to kill her. Or maybe he wanted her to clear his name as a price for keeping her location from Jacob.

Did he think he could convince her or coerce her to do it? Maybe he did.

But when Isabella explained her theory to Edward, wanting him to offer his insight—because he had known Carlisle for years—Edward answered in monosyllables. His tone and the way he sighed, nodding instead of replying to her, spoke volumes. He must've blamed himself not only for getting their cover blown, but for trusting Carlisle. He was still angry, too. But she couldn't do anything about his thoughts, so she merely squeezed his hand, pressing a kiss against his shoulder that was both tentative and bold. He didn't react and she couldn't see his face. Isabella continued to explain why she thought it was Carlisle watching them, and as she did, she started to understand that Edward didn't _trust_ his opinion anymore. He didn't trust himself to choose what's best for both of them, and she couldn't express her need for him to help her decide.

 _She_ was the technology-loving one. If anyone was to blame, it was her, on many levels. But if he wanted her to confide in him, she needed him to do the same so that they could work as a fully functioning unit.

But now was not the time nor the place, so instead of convincing him that his few mistakes in life didn't define him (and the fact that he had, in fact, made any, was arguable), she slid her arm—again, tentative and bold—around his chest and pressed her cheek against his shoulder, asking him to hug her. She couldn't see his face but he must've stared because he paused before he complied and wrapped her in his arms. His breaths against her neck seemed loud, but he said nothing. He felt very, very warm against her and she felt important in his arms.

An hour before sunrise, they (loudly) discussed topics as mundane as the weather as they got dressed. He'd turned the TV on, and she left her new clip-on earrings on the bedside table. They had agreed that if they revealed their awareness of being watched, Carlisle (or Jacob) would be likelier to rush here—or pay someone to rush here. Playing Mr. and Mrs. Sutton might give them some advantages. Time, for one. They had paid for three nights, and they would leave stuff here to make it look like they had the intention of returning. They also hadn't been killed yet. For whatever reason, Carlisle wanted them—her or him—alive.

Was he buying time, keeping an eye on them until he had a plan or until he got here? Maybe. And if so, Edward and Isabella didn't have to fear for their life—currently—as much as they'd thought they would. But still, they were playing a dangerous game.

Edward held her hand in a death grip as they left their room. He checked either side of the corridor and looked around every corner, squeezing her hand, but when a couple of people passed them, he decided it was easier to hold her against him. The receptionist greeted them cheerily, showing the direction of breakfast, but they refused and left the hotel.

Someone was likely to follow them, but they had to figure out who, and find an escape route.

It was Saturday. The morning was cloudy and cold, and few people passed them on the street. They walked in plain sight, wearing clothes belonging to the cover that had been blown, but they kept their pace and hopped on a MAX Green Line a second before it took off. Nothing had happened, and yet, as she stood close to him, watching and feeling the train pick up speed, her heart beat loudly in her ears.

Seeing the direction of Edward's gaze, Isabella saw a single, tan Camry follow the train. He had noticed it two blocks ago. When the train's route made it impossible for the car to follow them five minutes later, they sat across a teenager surfing the net and found out that there was a 24/7 Walmart a few stops before Clackamas. They couldn't be sure that the Camry was following them, but they couldn't take any risks.

They got off at the stop that would lead them to Walmart, and rushed to the side of a building away from the big street. He took his .540 from under his khakis and gave it to her. It barely fit in her jacket pocket, but she kept close to him so it couldn't be seen by a casual by-passer.

The moment they stepped in the Walmart, Isabella slid off her wig, took off her glasses and threw both in a bin. They entered the store. Pushing their cart, they passed a sleepy-looking salesclerk, but she barely paid attention to them. Not many people were around.

Now that Carlisle had lost sight of Edward and Isabella—hopefully—he would be stupid not to keep an eye on all stores, but he'd have to filter out quite a few. That would take time, and time was their biggest yet most dangerous asset.

"Maybe it's safer if we're not seen together," Isabella suggested.

"Nothing we do is safe. I'm staying."

Like on their first morning at the Baltimore Airport, Isabella picked clothes quickly, and so did Edward. Regretting her nerd-fantasy outfit, she decided that dressing as little like her usual self would stand out in the crowd. Jeans might've been her usual choice and, therefore, easy for Jacob to search for, but if every other girl wore jeans, she wouldn't stand out. So she bought jeans, a sports jacket, a cap and underwear. She chose a backpack. Hygiene products, water, energy bars, four prepaid cell phones, two road atlases and the like landed in their cart. Edward's current backpack already contained a first aid kit, but they bought extra drugs. They bought anything they thought they might need, even a flashlight, some rope, a pocket knife, and a lighter.

Finally, they stood in front of laptops. Isabella didn't want to pick just anything because she needed a decent storage capacity and a fast processor but as she read information next to the computers, Edward grew impatient enough to start suggesting options.

"What about this one?"

He pointed at a Toshiba Radius 11.

"Cheap," she replied. "Probably because it has camel shit for battery."

He scoffed under his breath.

"We don't have time for this."

"It's important."

"Macbook?" he tried again.

"I don't have time for dealing with ram overhead and storage capacity issues."

Edward slowly let out a breath, pointing at the next one, a Lenovo Thinkpad X250.

"Great battery life, annoying Superfish adware."

Edward let go of the cart, facing her and taking her shoulders in his hands. " _Speed_ is the key word here, okay? You have one minute to pick out whatever the hell suits you, and we're out of here. Go."

She glanced over all price tags and stopped at the more expensive part of the table where a Dell Alienware 15 waited for her. It cost $1,999. She called for a salesclerk to bring her one in a box while Edward gaped.

"We don't have that kind of money to spend on a laptop."

Not looking at him, Isabella thanked the man and put the box in their cart.

"Anything else?" she asked, pushing the cart. "I'm ready."

He opened his mouth, and she could tell that he wanted to say her name, her _real_ name, because they didn't have cover names anymore.

But he was well-trained and said, "Sara…"

"I have the money."

"Where?"

She lifted the little handbag she'd had since leaving Milwaukee. "Here."

"You're going to use your own credit card?"

"Don't be stupid. You cut that in half." She could tell he wanted to argue, so she took a step closer and spoke quietly. "It's safe and I'll explain."

He stared at her before giving her the slightest nod. A moment later, they piled their stuff on the conveyer belt and faced the same sleepy-looking salesclerk.

"Going on a hike?" she asked, trying to make small talk.

"Yup," Isabella replied, smiling a bit too brightly. "The thing is, though, our car just broke down a block from here. You wouldn't happen to know a rental, would you?"

"Oh, sure thing. It's like a mile away on the 82nd Avenue. Just go south past Super King and McDonald's on your right hand side and the rental will be on your left."

"Thanks, that's super helpful." Isabella slid a hand up on Edward's stomach. "See, honey munchkin? It won't be all that bad." He narrowed his eyes at her, but she glanced back at the salesclerk. "Men and asking directions, I swear."

They got changed in the bathrooms and walked south on the 82nd Ave. MAX green line rails weren't on this street, but the road had four lanes and people had started to wake up. Neither Edward nor Isabella talked, and it was a tense twenty minutes before they arrived at the Enterprise Rent-A-Car. Edward agreed to keep himself away as Isabella filled paperwork and paid upfront for a dark grey Chrysler 200. Having thrown her backpack on the backseat, Isabella picked Edward up from the side of the road.

"I know it's necessary, but we have to keep separation to a minimum," he said, tossing his own backpack on the backseat. "I don't like it."

She started testing the radio and getting a feel of the new car. "The woman who just rented this car is a 26-year-old Julia Marie Choquette, single and heading for her sister's wedding in Salt Lake City, where she will leave the car in another rental."

"I assume Miss Choquette didn't show her face to a security camera."

"Didn't even glance at them."

She could feel his eyes on her as he frowned. They had yet to discuss an enormous list of potential issues, plans and ideas, but they had to take care of a few things first.

She called a contact who would have a plate and driver's licenses waiting for them in Ellensburg, Washington.

Edward left the car to drive a single stop on the blue line heading away from Gresham to "forget" his phone (now switched on) between a seat and the train wall. Isabella nervously followed the train, and only breathed a sigh of relief as Edward sat back on the passenger seat next to her. She didn't want to appear weak or needy but she didn't like being separated, either. Was it because of the danger surrounding them? Was it because it was Edward, and she didn't want anything to happen to him?

Edward squeezed her forearm before she had time to take off. "Let me drive," he said, pressing his lips together.

She saw his need to be useful, to act and do anything but stare off into space. So they switched places and he picked I-205 to head to Seattle, Washington, a four-hour drive away from Portland.

"If you were Jacob, what would you do?" Edward asked.

"I would steal a car and buy fake plates. I would keep away from cities, and I would have a fake ID. I would change my appearance but avoid cameras anyway."

His jaw tightened, and he glanced at her.

"They expect us to avoid big cities. They expect us to do everything we've done so far."

"Yes."

"They're going to figure out we were in that Walmart, buying what we were buying, and they will figure out that we rented a grey Chrysler and they will know that you only mentioned Salt Lake City as a distraction."

"Eventually, yes."

"They will think we left in the opposite direction toward Seattle, or, at least, Sacramento or Idaho."

The edge of her mouth rose. "Yes."

It was just too bad that Salt Lake City was exactly where they were heading. They'd both been there. Isabella had repeatedly mentioned Utah to the woman working at the car rental so that, when the time came, the woman would recall her as a girl whose description matched Isabella's heading for Salt Lake City. Having the career Carlisle had, he would assume it to be a distraction. Having the past that Jacob had, he would assume they were heading in the opposite direction: Seattle. So Seattle was where they would leave their rental car, to confirm their suspicions, and buy an old car with changed plates before heading to Salt Lake City through Montana.

It wasn't the city itself that was important. There was nothing waiting for them in the capital of Utah. It was the appearance of wanting to distract, of confirming that distraction only to head to the exact city she mentioned to the woman at the rentals, that's what was important.

"From here onwards, it's a game of cat and mouse," Edward said. "We can come up with the most unlikely personalities, we can fake accents and play our parts outrageously well… there's nothing we can do to shrug them off infinitely. We need to be alert, and we can't avoid it… our actions will somewhat overlap with what Jacob expects us to do because that's the only way to keep us anonymous for long enough to keep on going."

They started crossing the Glenn-Jackson bridge. Isabella kicked off her shoes and lifted her legs to wrap her arms around them. She didn't give Edward enough credit—he had a quick, creative mind and the experience to come up with skillful strategies. She could think like Jacob to understand how he would be looking for them, but Edward? He could think like his boss.

"If you were Carlisle, what would you do?"

Edward pressed his lips together. Waiting, Isabella took a tattoo from her pocket, removing its plastic before sticking it on her wrist and licking it. Once it was wet enough, she removed the paper to reveal a snake. It was black and red and yellow. Satisfied with herself, she rested her cheek against her knees and eyed Edward. He still hadn't replied, and she wished she could ease his pain. But how? There were so many words left unsaid.

"It wasn't your fault."

Startled out of his thoughts, his eyes stopped at her tattoo, but he didn't ask, and she didn't share.

"I should've suspected _something_ ," he replied. "But what did I do? I was his most loyal employee."

"You suspected enough not to have a work phone."

"That wasn't because I suspected Carlisle of anything." He sighed. "I have a personal phone because I wanted to be able to contact my family if something happened. Whitlock knew."

"Tell me he's not the third party who encrypted it."

"No. He has a friend who did it."

"I'm not saying his friend did it badly, but… I should've asked you. I should've checked. I should've remembered."

"If I'm not to blame for this, you can't have that right, either."

She gave him a bittersweet smile. "But I'm good at this. Encryption and programming is what I do, it's who I am. But stress makes me sloppy. Not sleeping enough even more so. Those things have always affected my performance, and being aware of them doesn't change the fact. If I don't sleep, I start walking on a rope over negligence and bad decisions."

"That's quite poetic," he replied.

"Programming always is."

A tan Camry drove past them, and Isabella followed the car with her eyes before it made a sharp right turn and disappeared. She'd never felt more paranoid. She couldn't help it.

"I'm going to call my mother and sister on one of the burners," Edward said.

"Are you asking permission?"

"No. Just keeping you updated."

She read the signs they passed and contemplated telling him about Rosalie. Soon, she would continue writing code and he would find out anyway, but still she didn't want to contribute to his feelings of betrayal. He'd had enough without knowing that she'd been keeping this from him the whole time.

But she had to tell him.

"I've been in touch my roommate," she said, keeping her eyes on his face. He said nothing and only glanced at her before a red light. He didn't appear surprised.

"Rosalie," he said.

She blinked. "You don't sound surprised."

"It's clear that Carlisle is not the person you trust your life with. It had to be the person you kept in touch with in the bathrooms, and there aren't that many choices."

"How much do you know?"

"About her? She's 35. She has a PhD in Computer Science from the University of Maine and she was doing her post-doc at the UB. She was diagnosed with Asperger's at the age of 26. Her mother is an urban planner and father a meteorologist. She had multiple traffic violations up to the point where her boyfriend crashed himself in a motorcycle accident, but not a single violation since his death. She programs software for biotech companies."

Taken aback, she sat quietly for a few seconds.

"Homework, thy name is Edward."

"Frailty, thy name is woman."

She let out a laugh, rolling her eyes. "Shakespeare, really? If you were any more of an English teacher's son, you'd have a youtube account under the name Grammar Nazi. Did your mother refuse you dinner unless you quoted Hamlet?"

"No." He scoffed in amusement. "But she thinks intelligence is correlated with reading comprehension. I guess that's how she raised us."

"Did all that emphasis on reading comprehension help you study criminal justice?"

Edward tilted his head on the side, thinking. They'd exited Vancouver, Washington, and the road merged with I-5.

"You know what? I think it did."

"What a pair we make. My mother won the mathematician's equivalent of a Nobel prize and your mother made sure you knew Shakespeare by heart." Isabella paused. "She did, didn't she? Or is that the only line you know?"

"I do repent; but heaven hath pleas'd it so / To punish me with this, and this with me / That I must be their scourge and minister. / I will bestow him, and will answer well / The death I gave him. So again good night. /I must be cruel only to be kind. / Thus bad begins and worse remains behind." *

With a growing smile (and a good rolling of her eyes), Isabella started waving her hand in front of her face as if to keep from fainting.

"If you used Shakespeare to pick up chicks, I would totally understand."

Clearly amused, he smiled. "Oh, really?"

"I would throw my panties in your face."

He laughed, and she grinned at his joy. It felt a little surreal to discuss such light-hearted topics with him as they escaped Oregon with no way of knowing how many people, when and who exactly would notice their disappearance and follow them, but it also felt good to laugh. It felt good to forget the reality of the situation and pretend that they were just two friends on a road-trip.

"I didn't get along with Rosalie at first," Isabella said. "She seemed snooty and cold. She thought I was a rich kid who argued with her father on the phone a lot and bought herself a place in college to study something that sounded cool. I was looking for a new place to live by the time we found ourselves in the same bar surrounded by the same crowd, and… I think it was the first time we'd had a full conversation. I didn't expect her to be so—normal, and I guess I surprised her, too. We've been friends ever since."

He gave her a tight-lipped smile, expressing without words that he was glad she shared this with him. "How much does she know?"

"She knows who you are. She knew we were in Wisconsin. She might've, or might not have, helped me with what I might or might not have done, regarding the news yesterday."

"Does she know we were in Portland?"

"No."

"Do you think she's worried?"

"Yes and no. Rosalie and emotions… it's complicated. She's the closest friend I've had, but I think she would say emotions are different for her. We spoke about it once in length. She said she had to consciously study people's behavior to understand how to feel and react in situations, and until she got her diagnosis, she thought everyone else did the same—lived a life in which you learn how to empathize or sympathize. She said she'd like to learn to express herself more, and I agreed that she could practice on me, so now she makes it a point to end every conversation with expressions of worry or love. Not always, though. She's kind of an ideal friend to have in this situation because she trusts my skills so endlessly she doesn't think we could get caught—though she expresses it—but she also isn't offended if I need to make a two-minute call without expressing how much I miss my friends and normal life. I think she knows that I do."

"Do you think she'd betray you?"

"No."

"Why didn't you reveal your location in Portland, then?"

Isabella grimaced. "I have an inexcusable reason… but at least Rosalie knows about it."

"Which is?"

She pressed her lips together, scratching her nails and observing her fingers. "If she's tortured, she can't reveal my location if she doesn't know it."

Edward didn't take his eyes off the road.

"Do you think that's cruel?"

"I think it's smart, given the situation, but it doesn't sound like you."

"It was her idea. I told her that would never happen, but now I feel like every move we make is dangerous and I don't want to take any chances. It's not because I think it's likely, it's just... she knows that once I stop letting her know, she should be extra careful. I'm not proud that she's on this journey with me, but I can't deny that I couldn't have done it without a person to trust."

"Does she have a cell phone that can be tracked?"

"She has eleven burner phones. I know all their numbers by heart."

"That's how you've been communicating?"

"Yes."

"Never through my phone?"

"Not once. I thought it was your work phone. I would never put Rosalie in that kind of danger."

"It sounds like you have an understanding. Is she safe?"

"Yes," Isabella replied. "She doesn't even live in our apartment any more. I made her take precautionary measures. She rolled her eyes, but I think I convinced her. I'm still going to let her know we're alive and well."

"Good."

"My friends, too. Three of them."

"Good."

He still wouldn't take his eyes off the road, and she rested her cheek on her knees.

"I'm sorry, Edward."

"For what?"

"For dragging you into this. For not telling Carlisle to assign me a random guy who wasn't as good as you are. For letting him pick his most loyal employee even though I knew that you would turn against me or, in case you were clean, take his betrayal to heart."

"He picked me _because_ I'm loyal, Isabella. He knew I wouldn't let you out of my sight. He _played_ on it."

"I know."

"Why do you think Carlisle's illegal activities are worse than your father's, anyway? Isn't it hypocritical of you to defend your father but throw Carlisle under the bus?"

"There are factors in the game you're unaware of."

"There's that sentence again! Enlighten me, then. Why is your father superior to Carlisle?"

"I never said he was. But the fact that my father didn't want me dead might contribute, of course."

"And yet, you stand by your father but do everything within your power to reveal what Carlisle did. And in spite of defending your father, you made sure to collaborate with the DEA _against_ him. I don't see your logic in any of that."

Getting seriously annoyed, she scoffed.

"Why do you feel the need to remind me that I betrayed my father? Does it make you feel good to see me in pain? To make sure I knew I probably caused his death? Well, I'm aware, thank you."

"Isabella… your father was a criminal, he murdered people, he made money from—"

She rolled her eyes. "Thanks for the Wikipedia summary, Edward. I wasn't aware."

Surprisingly even to himself, he took a breath and said, "You made the right decision. Joining the Witness Protection, I mean."

"Did I? Really? Because he was so _evil_? Because the government, the people you work for, they're all just innocent little lambs sucking their thumbs in a sunshine-filled meadow? Not a drop of blood on their hands?"

"You agreed to be protected by their agency."

"Yeah, because _protection_ was what I would receive, knowing the kind of protection _Carlisle_ had in mind for me."

"I don't understand you."

"Why would you? Everything is so black and white in your world. Criminals, bad; government, good. I wish I was that color-blind."

His jaw tightened. "I never said that."

"But up until yesterday, you thought as much."

"Okay. Fine. Let's say that I did. And yet every time I ask you to share whatever it is that you got yourself into, you tell me there are _other factors in the game_ , and then you refuse to answer me. You don't trust me."

"I trust you."

"It feels like you don't."

"I trust you!"

"Yeah? Let's hear the reason behind you going against your father with the DEA and the full extent of what you _might or might not_ have done."

"It's not the same."

"Why not? You either trust me with this information or you don't."

"I'm trying to protect you."

"From what?"

"Information!"

"Why?"

Isabella took a deep breath and let it out slowly. She lowered her voice. "Because you can use it to testify against me."

"I wouldn't," he replied quietly, glancing at her.

Both were starting to calm down and realize that arguing wasn't going to get them anywhere. If they wanted to survive, and they did, they needed to work together.

"Yes, you would," she argued. "You're a law-abiding citizen, and I don't mean that as an insult. You have principles. Asking you to commit perjury for me? I can't ask that of you. The less you know, the better."

"I'm helping you. I think I deserve to know what I got myself into."

"From the perspective of the law, you haven't done anything yet that can't be forgiven, and I think you know that. You haven't broken the law, and starting from the point where Carlisle's connection to Jacob became clear, your decisions could be interpreted as, I don't know… made under exceptional circumstances or something like that. They'd excuse you, and they will. You're unaware of what I might or might not have done at this point in time. You could walk away at this second and nobody would accuse you of anything. Other than leaving me to Jacob and your boss, maybe. But that's only because people see yesterday's news as separate from what happened three weeks ago. They see me as a victim."

"You _are_ the victim."

"I am, but not one you're obliged to help."

He hated to admit it, but she was right. If he was forced to testify against her, he might think right now that he would commit perjury for her, but once the time came and he actually had to do it… it would be difficult. He believed in the system, he couldn't deny it. It had its flaws, but he didn't want to be a part of potential miscarriage of justice. At the same time, seeing what she (might or might not have) revealed yesterday through the news, her intentions if not her means were admirable. He wanted to be a part of making the system work again, making sure that the right people with the right intentions were the ones closer to power. He wanted to help her. He wanted to keep her alive, but he also wanted to help her make sure the right people had the right power.

It would be a bit too sudden to suggest it now, but they could get married. It would protect her from the information she had difficulty sharing, and it would protect him against perjury. They would be protected under the spousal privilege.

So he didn't press her for more information, yet.

"It's not your fault that our cover was blown."

Surprised by the change in topic, he eyed her before sighing.

"Really," she repeated. "It's not your fault."

"It was my phone that got us tracked down."

"You thought it was encrypted well enough."

"I should've thrown it away the moment you said what was going on."

"You didn't trust me."

"That's not an excuse."

Not knowing how to convince him, Isabella turned up the volume of the radio.

"Carlisle called me at the mall in Milwaukee."

"What?"

She muted the radio.

"He called me, asked me about things. Where you were, if you were acting suspicious, that kind of thing. I said we were still in Fort Atkinson, but… I think that call gave us away. It never came up, but he might've known I had a personal phone, and he could've dealt with the level of encryption even before I left Washington D.C. Before I met you."

For a minute, Isabella traced the snake on her wrist and followed her finger with her eyes.

"I'm sorry," Edward muttered.

"What's done is done." Isabella raised her eyes. "I don't blame you for anything you feel you did or any decisions you feel you should've made. I'm not perfect, and I don't expect it of you, either."

"I could've gotten us killed."

"But you didn't, and that's what's important. So our cover was blown and we were found in Portland. Shit happens. I have the means to cause more potential damage, and you have the skills to make up more strategies to evade detection. I have the connections to provide us with driving licenses and you can kick ass. What I might or might not be set out to do will be hard enough, I need you to make decisions confidently and comfortably. I don't expect perfection, but… if you could tell me what to do to help you not blame yourself and be just as confident in your skills as you were before this morning, I will do it, no questions asked. I don't blame you, and neither should you. We'll stumble upon some mistakes one way or the other, the important part is how we react once we're in trouble. Because in trouble we will be in one way or another."

Edward observed her in silence, and she gave him a self-deprecating smile.

"I know you think I'm this little girl with a strange passion for programming and no skill at life, but I would like to help you, if you'll let me."

Edward reached out to squeeze her hand. She raised her eyebrows but let go of her knee to intertwine her fingers with his.

* * *

* _Hamlet_ , act 3, scene 4


	12. Sand Dunes

…

 **Emma Matthews**  
by Anton M.

 **Chapter 12: Sand Dunes  
**

…

Once in Seattle, Isabella read the map as Edward chose one subdivision after another until, an hour later, they found an old, red Honda Civic on a driveway with a $3000 sign. Edward walked up to the door and rang the doorbell while Isabella observed the scene from the Chrysler. A man appeared and made a phone call before Edward handed over the money and received the keys. They threw their backpacks on the Honda's backseat and Isabella drove the Chrysler in a Rent-A-Car in Renton. Edward followed her. Once she'd completed the paperwork, she walked out and sat on the passenger seat next to Edward.

"All good with security cameras for Julia?"

"Yes."

The car was worn, with a high mileage and haggard seats, but it wouldn't stand out as much as a new Chrysler 200 did, and they could get a new one when and if it broke down. A low rattle from the exhaust pipe could be heard as they drove, but the problem (while annoying) wasn't urgent.

They stopped for a bite to eat. Isabella had learned that Edward was a bit of a health nut, always buying raisins and fruits and wholegrain sandwiches while she just wanted to fill her stomach with something warm. She ate a hot-dog, he ate a banana, a chicken salad and a packetful of nuts. Always keeping cameras in mind, they bought some groceries for their ride and gas for their new old car, and headed for Ellensburg on I-90.

She liked Washington State. Even on a cloudy November day, the place felt lush and green and a thought occurred to her that they should've made their distraction strategy the other way around. She'd spent nearly all her life in deserts. She would've liked to have stayed in a big forest for once.

"Western hemlock is the Washington State tree," she said, observing the green forests.

"Aren't you just a mountain of information," he replied.

"Do you know what it looks like?"

"I do not, actually. I'm sure I'd confuse it with firs and cedars and the like."

"That's too bad. I would've liked to have learned how it looks like."

He smiled, changing the topic.

"Do you think you can stop avoiding pools now that both Carlisle and Jacob know you're avoiding them?"

"I wish," she replied. "Unfortunately, Jacob expects me to crack. I knew I had to avoid them from the very beginning. Unless we accidentally land in a swimming pool or spend the night in a fancy hotel, I'm afraid they're out of question."

He offered a bittersweet smile. "I'm sorry."

"It's okay."

"Whose credit card are you using?"

"Julia Marie Choquette," she replied. "She's 26, born in Corvallis, Oregon to a French father and a British mother. Her credit card information is blissfully protected from a curious eye. It will take at least five work days before an inquiry about her can be processed, after which such an inquiry will be denied."

His grip on the steering wheel tightened, but a glance in Isabella's smug face told him all he needed to know. He scoffed.

"You made her up?"

"Such an occurrence may or may not have happened."

"Which bank is Miss Julia using?"

"Wells Fargo."

"Not some obscure bank in Antigua and Barbuda?"

"No. An obscure bank in Antigua and Barbuda would immediately raise a curious eyebrow."

"Does the non-existent Julia Marie have countless non-existent friends who will step in to help if the situation requires?"

"Countless? No."

"But there are some."

"There might or might not be less than a dozen, some in obscure banks overseas but most not."

"Would an inquiry about the non-existent friends of your non-existent Julia receive an equally abstruse reply?"

"A few might or might not trap the inquirer in a bureaucratic dead end."

She stared back at him with no hesitation or apology in her eyes until he turned his attention back on the road.

"Do I want to know the source of this money?"

"Probably not."

" _Isabella_."

"What? I'm being honest."

"Are we using your father's money?"

"No."

"Are you still being honest?"

"Yes, and the answer is no. Not yet, anyway. My mother came from money. Or, okay. No. It's more correct to say that what she made, she used sparingly. Very, very sparingly. She saved everything she inherited and divided her funds between me and Jacob in her will." She looked at him. "Why? Would it hurt your moral sensibilities to use money from drug trafficking?"

"Yes."

"Well, as you said, Carlisle is not much different from my father, and yet the man was responsible for _your_ salary. What's the difference?"

"That's tax money, so yes, there is a difference. Carlisle didn't pay me from his own pocket."

"Okay. Let me put it this way. I am responsible for every penny my father made because he left his money to me. What would you rather I do with it?"

He tilted his head on the side, thinking.

"I assume you already have a plan."

"I do, and anything you say is unlikely to change it. So, how? What's your preference? Would you rather I die in a ditch or use his money if it's the only thing that would keep me alive?"

"Are you trying to argue me into preferring your death?"

"That depends. Would you consider it unforgivable if I was to use it in a last-ditch effort to save my life? Yours? Anyone's?"

Edward pressed his lips in a tight line, and lowered his voice. "I would rather you not die. You know that."

"But would you forgive me if I used it?"

He sighed and made eye contact.

"I would," he said, his voice so low she barely heard it.

His answer startled yet thrilled her because _she'd_ caused this change in him. A week ago, he wouldn't have thought about forgiving such a thing, but here he was, making an effort to understand her—making an effort to the point where he was forced to contradict his previous beliefs. That couldn't have been easy.

"Thank you," she said, squeezing his elbow, turning her attention at the road.

"What will you do with his money?"

She ran her palms up and down her shins, resting her chin between her knees. "You'll see."

"Will it be illegal?"

"No."

"Can I trust you on that?"

"Yes."

They passed a big, green 'Exit 22, Preston Fall City' sign, and the day would've felt like any other day and the road like any other road if it weren't for their topic of conversation and a permanent nervous charge in the air. But this was just the tip of the iceberg, and they had to get these issues out if they wanted to have the opportunity to be a solid, bullet-proof team. There could be no doubt of trust from either of them.

"If the money you're using is your mother's, why did you tell me I wouldn't want to know the source?"

"Because four fifths of the money is still from my father. So the fact that I use my parents money is just a matter of interpretation—we may choose to believe it is my mother's money and not my father's, what we're using, but once we go past a certain amount, we can no longer delude ourselves with that belief."

"How high is that certain amount?"

"We'll never go past it," she replied. "The little we've used so far, though, is from neither. It's my own."

"I can pay you back, later. If I can."

"Getting paid back doesn't even make it in the top thousand of my list of priorities at the moment."

"What's your number one priority, then?"

"Don't die."

He scoffed a laugh. "I'm sorry. That's not funny."

"It's a little funny." She smiled. "I'm glad you laughed."

He smiled, too. It was a slightly embarrassed, apologetic smile, but it was a smile nevertheless.

"It applies to you as well," she continued. "And speaking of dying, I want you to know that in case of my death—"

"You're not going to die."

"—in _case_ of my death—"

"I will not let you die, Isabella."

"— _in case of my death_ —" she repeated, louder. "You're not allowed to internalize that broody self-blame thing you specialize in. If I die, it's not your fault, okay?"

He stared at her, stunned by her keen eye or perhaps by the absurd ease with which she expressed her potential death.

"Do you really think so little of my skills as to let you die?"

"No," she answered. "But in a world where two people are up against lord knows how many, it's a statistical probability, and as such, it's not your fault."

He didn't want to ponder on the possibility, and said nothing.

He followed her directions and drove off the I-90 near Ellensburg, Washington, where a ten-minute drive on gravel road was followed by fifteen minutes on asphalt until they pulled up in front of a red brick house in a high income area. Edward agreed to stay in the car after making sure she had his .540 in her pocket.

A woman, perhaps Edward's age, answered the door. She wore sweatpants and had long fake nails.

"Sepiida," Isabella said. Like magic, the door opened wide and shut behind her.

"Wait here," the woman said, walking upstairs in her slippers. Isabella could see a baby sleeping in a crib in the living room, and thought of walking over to observe the little person before the woman reappeared, holding six driving licenses.

"I do not see you, I have never met you, I've had a feud with Rosalie for ten years, and in ten minutes, your car has never been on my surveillance cameras."

Isabella handed over her money. "Thank you."

The baby started to splutter softly, showing signs of waking up, but the woman hesitated. Much like Rosalie, she hid a caring interior behind what she wanted others to see. She had kind eyes. "Do you need anything?"

"No, thank you. This is more than enough."

"Say hi to Rosalie for me."

It felt a little surreal, sitting down next to Edward after seeing a piece of such normal family life.

They chose roads not many used and returned to I-90.

"I didn't expect your connections to live in areas where private roads lead to mansions," Edward said. Isabella shrugged.

"Not everyone with specific skills is an unemployed man living in their mother's basement. Although… admittedly, some are."

"I probably shouldn't know who that was, should I?"

"It's better if you don't."

This time, Edward didn't contest her answer.

They stretched their legs and switched seats in Moses Lake before inventing backgrounds for Gabrielle Thompson and Ralph Jennings. From Jacob's and Carlisle's perspective, it didn't matter whether they played a married couple or not. They would look for a man and a woman traveling together with their height and weight, marital status notwithstanding. But playing a married couple gave Edward and Isabella the advantage of getting information about the other if something were to happen, and so those were their preferred identities.

Would Carlisle figure that out, though? Would he expect them to switch between brother/sister, traveling friends/couple, and a married couple? Or would he know they anticipated troubles that would imply a preference to play a married couple with the rights and benefits it provided?

But even if he did suspect that they would prefer one choice over the others, he couldn't _know_ , and so he would still have to scan the areas for people with their description rather than a married couple. They either pretended not to be married and risked not being able to get information about their partner, or they pretended to be a married couple while risking being filtered for.

Either posed a risk, but they decided that if discovery and trouble had become unavoidable, it would be best to continue what they'd been doing, most of the time.

"Are you tired? Do you want to switch?" Edward asked, watching the passing streetlights. They drove toward Spokane, Washington, and the plane lights were visible as one prepared for landing in the airport on their left. It was nearly half to eight in the evening, and the sun had set hours ago.

"Not yet."

"Just let me know."

"I will."

Edward peeled a banana for her that she ate when the traffic became slower.

"We need to make a list of people we can trust, and I need you to do that loci thing that makes you remember facts. Would you be able to remember descriptions of people with corresponding addresses and phone numbers?"

She looked at him as if he'd grown a second head. "Of course."

"Without writing anything down?"

"Yes."

Observing her tense shoulders and focused eyes, Edward said, "I don't mean to annoy you, but are you sure you don't want me to drive?"

Isabella glanced at him before looking back at the road. "We'll switch after the city has passed, okay?"

"Okay."

In the darkness of the evening, all cities became a blur of lights from cars and streets and houses, and Spokane was no different. Edward and Isabella switched seats after the city border, heading for Montana on the same I-90.

"I've been thinking," Edward said. "I don't think Salt Lake City is a good choice after all."

"But the whole point of this was to head for that exact city."

"I know," he replied. "But… Carlisle was my mentor. He will run our most likely and least likely scenarios in his head, and check both. We have highlighted Salt Lake City in our journey as our least likely destination—he will be sure to keep an eye on it."

"But… where does this end? How many twists and turns do we have to take before he isn't likely to check our destination?"

"There is always the chance that he's watching us no matter which destination we end up in."

Isabella slumped in her seat, staring at the tail lights of the cars in front of them, deep in thought. How could they stay alert 24/7 in every city, hotel, store and gas station they ever walked in? How could they ensure that anyone, anywhere, any of the people they met wouldn't turn around and give Carlisle or Jacob a call? Or shoot them on the spot? How could she make sure she wouldn't be recognized on the street? She'd been lucky in that regard, and while she knew a single youtube video gone viral didn't make her famous, there was the odd programming fanatic who would recognize her blind-folded.

"I should've never agreed to become a witness," she whispered. "We're not going to survive this. There's too many of them, so many eyes and ears and connections in places I could only dream of. I should've refused witness protection and let Trent have me… it's the same direction we're heading in anyway, and you'd be safe."

He didn't know how to argue with her. Yes, their options were scarce, yes, there were only two of them, and yes, as she said, they would probably be discovered several times during their journey. The only thing that would keep them alive would be to keep on going, always. To pick hotels randomly, to be spontaneous, to make plan Bs and Cs and Ys in a way that would be written nor recorded anywhere, to have code words, and grow eyes in the back of their heads. And even if they made it to her testimony alive (though not unscathed)… then what? She would still be in danger, and now, so would he.

But she'd _already_ done the impossible, several times. She'd hacked into a network encrypted in a way Whitlock could barely understand, and she'd hacked into the government's improved system without getting tracked. She knew Jacob. He, in turn, knew Carlisle. It didn't feel good to be reminded of the fact, but he did. So maybe Edward didn't know what made him tick, but Edward knew _how_ he ticked. That would have to be enough.

"You're tired."

"Yes."

"You said you had—might or might not have had—more plans to reveal shady people in occupations where none should exist."

"Yes."

"What you're doing is important."

She turned to see his profile and stared at him without blinking for a long while.

"Thank you," she whispered, hugging her knees. "You are a remarkable man."

Her words were so simple, so quiet and sincere, but somehow she'd grown to trust his judgement and count on his protection, and the knowledge touched him. They were different in many aspects of their lives, but maybe their priorities were not. Life, family, being loved and living in a just world—clearly their hopes overlapped in more than one place, it was simply the ways in which they had experienced those things that differed between them.

At half to eleven, Edward pulled to a stop in front of Motel 6 in Missoula, Montana, where they rented a room with two queen-sized beds for two nights and immediately checked it for cameras and recording devices. He took a shower while she turned on the TV, but she didn't even acknowledge him as he returned and sat next to her on the edge of the bed.

"— _keep heating up. Nobody could have foreseen this development, and a growing number of media outlets are urging the man behind these revelations to continue in spite of the illegal means that have clearly been used to expose such material. If and when Supervisory Deputy Marshal Carlisle Cullen is found, he will face charges of child molestation as well as ownership of child pornography on top of the —"_

A plethora of pixelated pictures appeared on the screen, and Edward blinked, rubbing his eyes. He listened without hearing anything, and when he locked eyes with Isabella, he could see her pale face staring back at him. He turned the TV on mute.

"Is this one of your, uh…" Clearing his throat, he stuttered, " _factors in the game_?"

"I didn't know," she whispered. "I didn't know. I swear I didn't. My father said that Carlisle deserved anything I could expose about him and there would be things that would disgust me, but… I thought he meant, the, you know. Drug trafficking and money laundering, not… _this_." Her eyes were wide with shock and disgust. "He said they had an irreparable disagreement and that he had already tried to expose… something about him, but… I never expected this. It can't be."

"Hey…"

"I'm sorry," she said, looking at him with wide eyes. "I'm so sorry. I thought that was it, what we saw yesterday. I didn't suspect… I didn't think he could do anything like this. How can that be? I feel so…" She shuddered, taking off her jacket. "I feel so _dirty_. I should've put a _bullet_ through his head instead of sitting in his office, listening to his plan to involve one of his most loyal employees in my case. I can't even… what could I have done differently? I want to _kill_ him."

"Hey, hey…" Edward stood up when she did and caught her eye. She blinked, lowering her gaze to stare at his bare chest, and he couldn't help but pull her into a hug. Everything she said, he felt, and there was no doubt in his mind that Isabella hadn't known this. She could fake a lot of things when they had an audience, but her shock felt just as real as his did.

He squeezed her, brushing his lips against her hair. "I believe you."

"Yeah?" she asked, voice weak.

"Yes," he replied. "I—I don't… I don't have any words right now except… I think our plan just changed."

"What do you mean?"

"Do you think we could track him down and give him over to authorities?"

She paused. "I would like nothing more."

"Good."

Her eyes were red-rimmed when she returned from having a shower, but he pretended not to notice.

He didn't know how to process what they'd just heard. He felt betrayed, angry, sick to his stomach, and yet nothing he felt adequately expressed the depth of his disgust. But if he wanted to bring his a-game, he had to use those feelings to push and motivate him, to reinforce his choice to stay with Isabella and help her.

How could Carlisle have lived such a secret life right under his nose? How did he not notice? And what would be a good enough punishment for such a crime? The government, assuming a piece of it still functioned as it should, could put the perpetrator (Carlisle) in jail, but taking his liberty felt like the equivalent of mild scolding for committing murder. Jail time didn't feel intense or painful enough for a man like him. The extent of his crimes felt so implausible a part of Edward still refused to believe it, but as he sat on the bed, switching to other channels to hear the rest of the story, he hated to admit that the news had evidence on their side. He believed in evidence.

But how in the world had he worked for Carlisle for seven years without noticing a thing amiss? Did he wish to see a father figure in him, something his sister had thought and teased him about? Edward had always taken pride in his good judge of character, but clearly he couldn't have been more wrong.

After switching off the TV, Edward gave two short calls to his sister and mother, making sure they were okay, cautioning them to be very, very careful, and listening to his sister's quiet condolences about the betrayal of his boss. Edward watched Isabella tap on the keyboard, either concentrating hard or pretending to do so to give him a moment of privacy, and more than ever, he wanted to let his sister know what he was doing and where, so that if the worst did happen, their last conversation wouldn't be menial words about a person he'd falsely trusted. But he couldn't do that.

Edward implied to his sister that he'd kept far from the current drama of the Swan saga exaggerated in the newspapers, when in truth, the few headlines he'd seen expressed shock, drama, fear—and yet the titles felt lukewarm next to the real thing. Edward's involvement and name had yet to be mentioned in the news, and he hoped it could be kept that way for as long as possible. Because even though Carlisle and Jacob knew that Edward had to be helping Isabella, for the world it seemed like she was escaping alone. Details like that, while small, could work in their favor.

Edward lay under covers, turning toward Isabella who sat cross-legged on top of the other bed, tapping on the keyboard. Feeling eyes on her, Isabella pushed away the computer and turned her attention at him.

"Do you want me to turn off the lights?"

"I don't mind," he replied. "Can you do me a favor, though?"

"Sure."

"Can you go to the New York Times main page and turn your computer toward me?"

Confused but curious, she did as he said.

"Thank you."

He closed his eyes, turning away from her. She closed the browser, just as confused.

"Can I ask what just happened?"

"May, Isabella," he corrected, " _may_."

Amused, she scoffed. "Excuse me, Mr. Grammar. _May_ I ask what that was all about?"

"I am now able to say that, as far as I observed, you were reading the news on your computer," he replied, not turning around.

She understood the words he didn't say.

"In case you testify."

He hummed in agreement. Spousal privilege did not cover anything before a marriage took place. Until she was ready to hear his proposal or until he thought of a way to find a person who could legally marry them, they had to cover her tracks.

"Good night, Isabella."

She finished encrypting and talking to Rosalie at three AM only to toss and turn for an entire hour. After a bit of consideration, she stood up and leaned over Edward's bed.

"Edward?"

He blinked at her. Waiting, he didn't say anything, and she felt a blush cover her neck before she took a step back and sat on the edge of her bed.

"Sorry," she whispered, pulling her blanket on top of her.

"For a genius you're sometimes surprisingly dense," he said, voice thick with sleep.

"Excuse me?"

"You say that not sleeping affects you tremendously and that holding someone's hand helps you sleep, but then shy away from doing so. Is it the question that frightens you or the fact that it's me?"

She felt embarrassed, yes, but not because of either of his reasons. She was embarrassed that, like a two-year old, she _needed_ a hand to hold to sleep.

Edward scooted over to the other side. "Bring your blanket."

"It's okay," she argued, wrapping arms around her legs, not moving. She didn't want to admit he was right, but she'd asked them to stay here longer in the morning just so she could spend a few hours programming. The least she could do was to get a proper night's sleep, even if it was a little late to start.

Sighing as she admitted her defeat, she quietly lay down next to him and sneaked her hand under his blanket. Turning to face her, he took it. She brought their interlaced fingers close to her face.

"It's okay to need people," he said.

"I know."

"Do you?"

She didn't reply. No cars disturbed the stillness of the night, and not a single murmur could be heard in their room. It felt like calm before the storm.

"What does the yellow stand for on your tattoo?"

"Nothing," she replied. "Sometimes a snake is just a snake."

They developed a routine. He drove in the morning before they switched places in the afternoon, and at around seven to ten PM, they decided on a city and hotel to stay in, if they hadn't planned it in advance. Usually, she woke up to find Edward doing push-ups, squats and crunches in the morning, but after witnessing how healthy his food choices were, she wasn't really surprised. He felt like the kind of guy who'd have motivational quotes around the house, if he lived in one. She hadn't asked.

She programmed until wee hours in the morning and used his driving hours to sleep.

It took Edward a week not to mute the TV each time Carlisle was mentioned, and while he couldn't say that feelings of betrayal and disgust ever went away, he'd started to detach himself from Carlisle. In every few days, the news revealed yet another crime or association or a corrupt government official, but most of the news focused on Carlisle's connections regarding the accusation of child molestation and pornography. Congressman Schroeder and Senator Torres appeared to be involved in whatever Carlisle had done, too, and Edward observed the news with a mixture of unparalleled disgust and helplessness. But knowing that Isabella forced the media to focus on the perpetrators and connections behind child molestation, offering them the data she discovered every day, Edward felt a bit better. Not much, but a bit.

She didn't say she was the person offering this evidence to the news, and he didn't ask, but he knew.

Her choice to do this felt like a two-edged sword because if she succeeded in revealing every single person involved in Carlisle's crimes against children, she raised the likelihood of Carlisle deciding to kill them, too. Life would be much trickier if both Carlisle and Jacob wanted them dead, but she had to do this. To see this disgusted her, and every new set of evidence from another perpetrator broke her heart, but she had to reveal these things. She had to.

In the next few weeks, Isabella taught Edward to refer to states by their order of admission to the Union, and together, they made a list of nine people (plus her four friends) they thought they could trust. They had a few scares, too. On a Tuesday in the middle of November, a middle-aged salesclerk followed her with his eyes after they'd stepped into a Trade Fair store in Buffalo, New York. Noticing this, Edward pulled her against him and nuzzled her black wig.

"Foxglove, 3 o'clock."

Reaching for ham, she casually glanced at the middle-aged man. She didn't recognize him.

Rash decisions like running could cost them their lives, but not doing anything could result in the same thing. Not changing their behavior, Edward and Isabella picked groceries, but Edward made her stand half behind him as he prepared to pay. The man appeared quite casual until he started using only one hand to beep through the barcodes to tap on his phone with the other. When he looked up, Edward held him at gunpoint.

"Who are you talking to?"

Eyes wide, he raised his arms. "Dude…"

"Who? Carlisle? Jacob?"

Recognition flashed in the man's eyes, but he also seemed quite afraid of Edward.

"Relax, it's just my brother, dude. He lives upstairs, he's a big fan —"

It was either a very, _very_ careless act or a very bad lie, but Edward wasn't in a situation to think the best of people. The doorbell dinged as a teenage girl stepped in and screamed before running out. Isabella could see her talking on the phone on the street, probably calling the police. Girls with smart moves like that would blow their cover.

"Ralph…"

Edward, too, glanced outside, while the man behind the counter made eye contact with Isabella. "You have your father's eyes," he said. "I don't mean any harm, my brother would be happy to—"

Edward dug out a wad of cash while Isabella threw the rest of their groceries in a bag.

"I don't care what description you give of us to the police as long as it's not our height or weight or name, have I made myself clear?"

"Dude—"

"Clear?"

"Crystal," he replied dryly.

Hearts beating wildly, Isabella and Edward pulled into a side street as two police cars passed them. He had made a rash decision, pulling a gun like that, but Isabella knew saying it would be unnecessary. He knew.

"I think Ralph and Gabrielle just died," Edward said, pulling off her wig as well as his own. They put groceries in their backpacks and left the car on the side of the road, walking to a rental where Isabella chose the first car offered to her, a black Nissan Altima. Having driven it to Rochester, they again chose one subdivision after another, finding two cars too cheap to be reliable until a grey 2001 Chevrolet Silverado was offered for $5,400. They bought the truck and took the Nissan back to the rental. It wasn't until they started driving south on I-390 that Edward relaxed, taking out food and making them sandwiches.

"Did you know the guy?"

"I've never seen him in my life."

Rumors of her whereabouts ran so rampant that even the news covered it, but the store hadn't had a video camera and their potential presence vanished in disbelief.

A week later, the red-haired Tilda and Alexander Forsberg reached the Apalachicola National Forest next to Tallahassee, Florida, and left their truck in a parking lot before hiking to a camping site. They set up a tent. It was November 26, a Thursday. Few clouds covered the sky and they could wear short sleeves in the seventy-degree weather as they cooked a piece of turkey in companionable silence.

Despite being okay with holding her hand at night, she hadn't done it since Montana. She still didn't share the specifics of her programming and often appeared from the bathroom with red eyes, and yet, they'd grown closer. They cooperated well in intense situations, but they also bantered and made jokes. He'd developed a fondness for her.

"Happy Thanksgiving," Isabella said as she dug in her piece with a plastic fork and knife. She'd pulled on a sweater, and they sat so close her arm brushed against his.

"Happy Thanksgiving," he repeated softly. They sat in front of a lake, surrounded by forest and not a single other soul on the camping grounds. "I'm grateful you're with me."

"Likewise." She smiled. "I wouldn't have made it this far if it weren't for you."

"You would've been fine," he replied, watching her. Her natural dark brown peeked out from under her bleached hair. She had dark circles under her eyes, but it didn't distract from the sharpness of her gaze.

The more he got to know her, the more protective he felt over her.

"I have a proposition," Edward said.

"Okay."

He stopped eating, locking eyes with her. "I think we should get married."

She lowered her fork, gaping before a blush covered her neck and face. Smiling, she cleared her throat. "I thought it was customary to at least take the girl on a date before a declaration like that."

Amused, he smiled at her. "On paper, Isabella. Legally, not physically."

"Ah." She scoffed a laugh, embarrassed by her assumption. "Sorry."

"No harm done," he replied, relieved that the idea sounded negotiable.

She stared in her cup. "Why?"

"For spousal privilege."

"For what?"

"Spousal privilege," he repeated. "It's the right to refuse to offer evidence where your spouse is concerned. It includes testimonial and communications privilege, and having those in our pockets would prevent me from testifying against you. Or you against me."

"Nobody could force you to testify against me?"

"Not about anything that happened during our marriage."

Thinking, she drank from her cup, and leaned slightly away as she locked eyes with him.

"Okay."

Scoffing but smiling, he wrapped his arm around her shoulders to keep her warm.

"Okay," he repeated, touched by her acceptance, even if the marriage would take place on paper only.

Lips brushing against the edge of her cup, she was deep in thought, watching the lake. She leaned her head against his shoulder.

"'til death do us apart… Kinda sad how apt that might be."

They finished eating, pulling their backpacks on a pine, and retired for the night. A woodpecker pecked in the distance. Neither could fall asleep.

"I've been trying to figure out who could marry us."

She paused. "I think I know a man."

"Trustworthy?"

"Yes," she replied. "He's, like, a hundred years old, but he's ordained and he'd do it without giving us away or involving the media. But, he lives in New Mexico."

She had lived in three places in New Mexico: Albuquerque, Las Cruces and Carlsbad. Her father had lived there for too long and too many people would recognize her even if they'd never seen her before. Stepping in the border of the state? She might as well shoot herself.

But if they drove there, only stepped in his home, and drove away, it might work. Would it?

"Everyone needs to think it's for real," Edward said. "Everyone. My family, your friends, nobody can have doubts."

"That's okay," she replied, covering her sleeping bag with a jacket to keep warm. She rested her cheek on her folded arm. "You've thought about this for a while."

"Yes."

"Why didn't you suggest it sooner? I know you want answers, and if what you say is true about the privilege, I can give them to you once we're married."

"I wanted to have a realistic time window for this to feel real to others."

"Do you think they'll suspect we did this only to have spousal privilege?"

"They will," he replied. "That's why everyone we know will have to be able to testify that, as far as they've observed, we're the real deal. You know, the genius daughter of a drug lord couldn't help but fall madly in love with that hunky marshal who so bravely protected—"

Laughing, she smacked his arm, but he caught her hand and held it. In a serious voice, he asked, "Are you sure you're in this? If you're asked to be a witness in even a quarter of those cases, or if they continue to attack the intention behind of our marriage, it might take years before we're able to divorce. I want you to understand that."

"I understand," she whispered. "I think you're discreet enough to keep any developing real relationships under the radar, and if you want to divorce to marry for love, I won't stand in your way."

She could feel his breath on her hand. His voice was low.

"I wouldn't cheat on you."

"It's not cheating," she argued. "It's only on paper, you said that. And you're a normal person at an age when people are ready to settle down and have kids. It's normal."

"So if you're the one who finds a man you really want to marry, we'll get a divorce, too," he replied, but the words tasted bitter on his tongue. He'd kept suppressing and ignoring his affection for her, an affection he would be smart not to act on, but he couldn't help but feel jealous by the idea.

"I guess, but that's kind of unlikely. Guys my age aren't really into the whole looking-into-my-face and forming-sentences-out-of-words thing. And chasing a girl who's chased by so many men? That's kind of a turn-off."

He laughed in spite of himself.

The next day, she picked a ring at a thrift store in Atlanta, Georgia, and Edward bought it for thirty five bucks. Grinning, he held it in front of her at a red light, and she gasped, pretending surprise. He put it in her finger, and she continued driving with a smile on her face.

"Thanks for being such a sport about this," Edward said.

"It's just a ring," she replied, glancing at him. "And if 'death do us apart' and you're the only guy I ever marry… I'll consider myself lucky it was you."

He squeezed her hand, a sparkle in his eyes as he watched the street lights pass them by. For the next three days, they communicated with a Jack Groover from Taos, New Mexico, who would take care of legalities for them. In Nashville, Tennessee, Isabella bought herself a dress while Edward found himself a suit, and on Monday the 30th, a day before their wedding, Edward made her buy herself swimming clothes — Isabella gaped and grinned and gaped some more — and drove her to Hooper, Colorado, where he stopped the truck in front of Sand Dunes Swimming Pool.

"But, it's so dangerous," she said in spite of herself.

"There is one other man watching out for us here, and I'm going to give you until eight PM to swim as much as you'd like. Do you think four hours is enough?"

She took his neck in her hands and pressed wet kisses on each cheek. Grinning, she let go.

"Why now?"

He lifted a shoulder as if in a shrug. "You've been stressed and you've done a lot for me, uncovering everything you have about Carlisle, and… you deserve it. Just don't talk to anyone, and if you suspect anything, I'll be sitting by the pool, watching everyone like a hawk."

She grinned, and for the next four hours, she barely stopped to breathe as she swam laps in the swimming pool. She was approached by nearby coach, but she pretended not to know English before continuing. Edward sat, holding _And Then There Were None_ in his lap but not moving a page as he focused on the people who seemed to pay any attention to Isabella. At two minutes to eight, she got out of the pool and stood in front of him in her green sports bra and purple boxers. He was sure he'd never seen her smile so wide. He hadn't forgotten her fitness, but seeing her stand in front of him, he shamefully had the politeness to stare at all the places covered by her swimming clothes.

As they drove back to Pueblo, Colorado, the Isabella who sat next to him felt like a different person: carefree and smiling, discussing trivial details about the next day and removing pieces of skin from her (very) pruney fingers. It felt like she laughed at everything he said. He was slightly taken aback by this change but welcomed it, and found it ridiculously easy to fall for the side of her he'd never had the opportunity to see. If this was what she was like before all the death and drama, how could anyone have kept themselves from wanting to spend time with her? How could any man have kept themselves from selfishly wanting her for themselves?

Their room in Hampton Inn & Suites in Pueblo had a single king sized bed (which was not a coincidence but a choice), and Isabella threw her backpack on it before stretching toward the ceiling, eyes closed and grinning. Not taking his eyes off of her, he put his backpack against the wall and observed her. Spousal privilege and a marriage on paper, and all he wanted was to take her in his arms and make her forget everyone and everything, everywhere.

He knew it would be a bad idea to start anything in their situation. It was why he hadn't let on his growing fondness for her. But looking at her, slowly opening her eyes and widening her arms as a signal for him to hug her, a carefree and grateful grin on her face, he took a step closer. He covered her neck with his hands, running the pads of his thumbs against her skin, and leaned in for a kiss. Her lips were still cold, but his were hungry and warm, and he put his hand on her back to press her against him. She whimpered, running her fingers in his hair, basking in the taste and smell and feeling of him, so close and not close enough. She felt lithe and pliant in his arms. It took him a minute or two to withdraw, and when he did, she had a smile on her face and kept her eyes closed. He nearly leaned in for another kiss, but he didn't move.

It shouldn't have been him. He should've waited—it had to be her decision. He had made sure she understood that holding his hand at night, too, had to be her decision. He refused to be the older guy taking advantage of a younger woman, but damn it, he _wasn't_ sorry. Maybe if she hadn't returned his sentiment, but she had. He didn't want to apologize.

She hummed, and her neck flushed when she eyed his chest. "Well, that was interesting."

"I don't want to marry a girl I haven't kissed."

If she was offended, she hid it well. Instead, she nodded, biting her lip, and once again lifted her arms to hug him. He wrapped her in his arms and held her for another few minutes, not saying a word. He was sure she could hear his heart pumping wildly in his chest, but it didn't matter and he didn't care.

"Thank you for today," she whispered, speaking against his chest. "I will never forget what you've done for me."

"Likewise," he said, squeezing her closer.

For the first time since she'd bought her Dell, she didn't spend her night programming. Edward hadn't said as much because he couldn't stand whining, not even by himself, but Isabella suspected that some nights, Edward would've liked to do something other than watch the (breaking) news or read another Agatha Christie book. But she had shut him out when she was coding because doing it properly required all her attention.

Today, though, after he returned from having a shower and retired for the night, she shut off the lights and crawled under the blanket next to him. He started to separate the covers from the blanket, but she scooted closer and stopped him.

After his kiss, even being in his proximity gave her butterflies, which made asking this casually quite difficult, but she persevered.

"Will you hold me?"

She was quite happy Edward couldn't see her blush. The silliness of the question only paralleled her request for him to hold her hand, but still, opening herself up for ridicule didn't get easier for her.

Like she'd hoped, Edward lifted the blanket and wrapped his arm around her waist, pulling her against his chest. She slid her hair our of the way so that he could breathe comfortably. A song she couldn't recognize could be heard through the wall.

" _Way Down We Go_ ," Edward whispered. "Kaleo. My sister loves that song."

She lay still to hear the lyrics, but all she could hear was the slow rhythm of the beat and a hint of a melody. Feeling content and happier than she had been in months and maybe years, Isabella shut her eyes. She felt protected, warm, and cared for.

"My father had cancer," she said, feeling Edward's grip tighten around her. She covered his hand with hers. "It gave him time to think. Not enough time, if you ask me, but all the time in the world to have regrets… so, so many regrets. It gave him time to express his idealistic wish to leave me a just world. He wasn't dumb or blind, and as you know, I like to think he wasn't evil. He knew the damage he'd done. The day he found out about his cancer, he invited me to spend the night at his place. We'd had a fight, but… I went. It was raining, and I had an exam the next day. He was sitting on the kitchen floor, three full bottles of Mixteco mezcal in front of him, crying. I'd never seen him cry. He was like me, I think. He saw it as a weakness and chose when to let out those emotions. But I don't think he could help it that night. He motioned for me to sit, smiled the way only a broken man could, and said, 'My demons have found me.'"

Sliding his fingers over hers, Edward waited.

"I'd never heard him talk like that, look like that, _regret_ like that. It's hard to explain the man I saw that night, but it didn't feel like my father, you know? Say what you will about him, that man spent his free time pushing my swing and building us a tree house. He taught me to tie my shoelaces. He taught me things no child should know how to do, but… all my childhood, he was just another father, _my_ father. I caught up with the world and grew to detest what he'd created and the choices he'd made, but the other half of me _loved_ him. It feels ashamed for loving him, but I can't… there's not a lid in the world that would fit that jar.

"That night, he expressed the mistakes he'd never admitted to, the injustices he knew he'd taken advantage of, the choices he'd made… it felt like he didn't actually want me to hear it, but at the same time, I think I was the only person trustworthy enough, willing to listen and forgive. It was something he seemed to desperately seek—my forgiveness. It was like a strange confessional. I'm not saying that crying about your crimes makes them okay. Nothing does. But you have to understand—that night, my father gave me the means and the information to take down the world which had allowed him to become the man he was and make the choices he'd made. I left in the morning, wrote my exam, and returned to my father every night for two weeks.

"It was painful, and raw, and I hated him half of the time. But it was necessary for him to express everything and for me to hear it, and he gave me lists of people whose actions contradicted their high position, especially those whose crimes were like… Carlisle's. Money laundering is quite mild when compared to the shit men like Carlisle have done. He never said Carlisle was one of them, but looking back… I think it was too painful for him. He hinted. He gave me enough to understand, now, after what Carlisle did, to see which lists and whose past takes priority over others, but it's unimaginably difficult. It's different mediums, different computers, different encryptions. They've moved, they've covered their tracks, they've done everything to cover _their_ choices. It's an impossible undertaking."

"You're _doing_ it."

"But the _magnitude_. You don't know how deep this goes. How do you fight crime if one-third of the people fighting are no different than the people they're fighting?"

He recognized the rhetoric in her question, and nuzzled his nose against her damp hair.

"Did your father plan this?"

"I did the planning," she replied. "But he guided. He told me who to trust and who to distrust."

"If the people he trusted are the ones you should trust, how are they not on your list of people to reveal?"

"But they're not," she said. "With one exception, every single person my father told me to trust has refused to do business with him."

He paused. It felt like there was a world full of experiences he'd never had that had turned her into this determined and complicated girl willing to live a life undercover, maybe for the rest of her life, to bandage the wounds her father had created.

A surge of affection ran through him. Gently, he pulled her to face him, and encased her jaw in his hands. She slid a hand on his neck, scratching the rough area against his jaw, and he barely kept himself from kissing her. Instead, he pressed a kiss between her eyebrows and wrapped her in his arms. She relaxed against him and fell asleep in minutes. He listened to her breathing, thinking.


	13. Colorado Springs

**A/N:** Thank you all for reading, and a special thanks to AlePattz for fixing my Spanish. You are all very kind. I think this might be my girliest chapter yet, so take a deep breath and persevere. My apologies.

…

 **Emma Matthews**  
by Anton M.

 **Chapter 13: Colorado Springs  
**

…

Isabella relished the ache in her muscles.

Having gotten out of shower, she pulled a strapless light blue dress over her head. She surrounded her wrist with the ugly green string of her amulet and wore it as a bracelet. She put on some mascara and lipstick, but very little of either. Showering hadn't removed the pillow crinkle on her cheek, and if she'd remembered to buy concealer, she would've hidden the skin under her eyes as well as the crinkle, but it didn't matter much. Overall, she didn't look as nervous as she felt, and that felt comforting.

Out of all the reasons to step inside the borders of New Mexico as an adult, it had to be the surreal reality of getting married to a law-enforcement officer ten years her senior in a ceremony with two witnesses present.

Edward's suggestion had surprised her, and the prospect of marriage, even on paper, daunted her, but she knew a marriage would be their best chance of getting through this alive and not end up behind the bars. Whichever way she looked at it, marriage was the preferred alternative. Edward had proposed it, Edward had agreed to it, and she wasn't likely to survive anyway, so… why not?

But if they _did_ manage to be on the run until the end of February and not get killed, and if she _did_ survive her testimony and the accusations against their marriage, and if they _did_ survive all the following court cases and testimonies only to divorce three years from now—then what? Even if she hired body-guards, she'd have to live under the radar like a criminal for the rest of her life. Edward was a kind, responsible man, ready to fake anything to keep them alive, but he couldn't live this lie forever and she couldn't expect him to.

Like everything in life, this performance, too, would come to an end. But for now, they had a marriage license waiting and a ceremony to attend.

When she joined Edward, he was sitting on the edge of the bed, head bowed, watching a youtube tutorial as he struggled with his bow tie. Noticing her, he stood up and lowered his arms with a nervous twitch. He wore black pants, a white shirt, a dark vest, and the suit jacket on the back of a chair was much fancier than she remembered him buying.

Tugging off the black bow tie, Edward swayed on his heels. His eyes had an intensity in them that made her feel shy.

"You look beautiful."

"Thank you for wanting me to have the memory of being told… that, on my wedding day," she replied, touched by his thoughtfulness yet embarrassed by her lack thereof. "If I'd known you had a real, fancy-pancy suit, I would've, I don't know. Bought a peacock's tail."

He chuckled. "My mother and sister would never believe that I'd get married in anything other than a proper suit." He looked timid, fiddling with his tie. "They're right."

"Do you need help with that?" she asked.

"Do you know how to tie one?"

She did not, but together, they watched the youtube tutorial. She sat sideways on his lap as she tied his bow tie while he held her. Reluctant to let go, she tugged at her handiwork after she was done.

"Thanks for letting me sleep tonight," she said softly. "I slept so well I still have the pillow crinkle to show for it."

"You didn't move once," he replied. "I thought you were dead."

Smiling, she got up from his lap, but he took her hand to keep her from leaving. Their interaction had felt comfortable for a while, but today, they both had the occasional nervous tremor in their voice.

"I have something for you."

He dug in his backpack before holding out a square box. It was flatter and wider than a ring box but just as elegant.

She took the box but didn't open it. "I don't have anything for you."

"I don't care," he replied. "I've never given marriage much thought, but I don't think either of us expected it to happen this way. I just wanted you to have something to remember today by. Something real from a… friend."

Inside the box was a small golden penguin on two chains. Isabella raised her eyes to find Edward stifling a smile.

"I thought I might have to make up for the lack of penguins on your dress."

"It's beautiful," she said, eyes glinting with humor. "Will you put it on?"

She felt every touch of his fingers as he attached the chain around her neck before he took her bare shoulders in his hands. Neither spoke and neither moved until Edward leaned closer.

"Are you sure about this?"

She turned around to face him. He had dark eyes, strong eyebrows and a crooked nose. A light, almost ginger color had started to appear beneath the black dye of his hair. When she'd first observed him watching her in the shadows, she'd thought him to be quite normal-looking, but he'd never felt more handsome to her than at this moment, kind, courageous and ready to help her fight injustice using questionable methods.

"I'm sure," she replied. "Are you?"

"Yes."

She fiddled with his tie with the excuse of straightening it. "If I die, it doesn't matter what you do. But if I don't, I want you to understand that this lie is for ever. If we divorce in one or two or three years, the questions won't stop. Whether we keep in touch after that or not, whether I live in the States, hiding or not, nothing will change the fact that people will be curious and some things might come to light twenty years from now. And once they do, and you're a sixty-six year old man, married, with children, and you get a call at four AM, asking about that marriage thirty years ago, I need you to tell them the same thing you'll tell them this spring. That it was real. That we fell in love. Because unless you're one hundred percent sure I'm dead, any other answer will expose me to questions and make you free to testify against me."

He pushed her bangs away from her forehead.

"I'm nothing if not loyal to a fault," he replied. She blinked, not knowing what to say to relieve him of his self-blame, but he didn't expect her to say anything. "Today or forty years from now, I'll keep you safe. I promise."

This marriage, they both knew, would benefit Isabella more than Edward, which is why his words touched her so deeply.

"I won't let you down."

On their way to Taos, New Mexico, Isabella and Edward turned from I-25 to Route 160 in Walensburg, Colorado, deciding to spend extra time on driving in Colorado and cut their time in New Mexico. The faster they got in and out of the state, the safer they'd be.

Driving out of Pueblo, they took off their wedding bands before pulling sweatshirts and jackets over their clothes. Isabella observed Edward's shoes that were so very shiny and his impeccably shaved jaw. She, in contrast, wore white tennis shoes and a childish amulet around her wrist. She felt underdressed.

"Did you want me to wear a white dress? Or, at least, proper heels?"

"No."

"Are you sure?"

He glanced at her, half-smiling. "Will it be insensitive to express how little I care? Because I could not care less."

"But you look so very fancy."

Edward sighed. "There are very few things in life that bore me more than discussing clothes. Please don't put me through this torture when we might get shot in an hour for stepping inside New Mexico."

"Point taken," she replied, deciding to ignore the fact that they might both die because of this decision. They'd dissected it long enough.

"You know, I never thought I'd get married to a guy who spends more time in the bathroom than I do."

"I had to shave," he defended.

Reaching over to rub his jaw, Isabella smiled. "It's like a baby's butt."

The edge of his mouth rose. "You are in a strange mood today."

"I'm happy," she replied, smiling. "I'm getting married to a guy who not only cooks but washes his own underwear and socks every single day. Women will be green with jealousy."

He chuckled.

An hour and ten minutes later, Isabella and Edward sat in a beige hallway in Taos outside the County Clerk's Office, wearing frizzy wigs and holding hands. An elderly man sat across from them, reading a newspaper, and a middle aged couple argued a few feet from them. It felt like the most regular day in the world.

"Carmen Acosta and John Fowler."

Isabella and Edward entered the office. A large African-American with grey hair stood up, walked around the desk, and pulled Edward into a half-hug.

"Anthony."

"Jack."

The clerk held a hand out to Isabella. "You are a sight to sore eyes," he said, revealing a golden tooth as he smiled. "No wonder Anthony is so taken with you."

He leaned against his desk. It shifted backwards as he took a document from a pile.

"As discussed, the license fee is $25 dollars, to be paid in cash. I'm legally obliged to see an ID with a photo."

Isabella and Edward showed their (real) driving licenses and paid the fee.

"The signed license has to be in my office within ninety days of the ceremony," the clerk said.

"But even if we waited ninety days, word might get out sooner."

"Indeed. I can't guarantee anything. I cannot treat your license any different than other people's. If you choose to get the paperwork over with this week, you can expect your marriage to be known on Friday."

"You give us three days, then."

"Yes," the man replied, walking behind his desk again. "I'll be twenty minutes behind you."

"Thank you."

They left the office and started driving toward Angel Fire before turning left on a small road in Santa Fe National Forest. They spent over twenty minutes driving on gravel roads.

"Is he our second witness?" Isabella asked.

"Yes."

"Can he be trusted?"

"Hopefully."

Isabella paused, contemplating.

"The man who will marry us is Vicente Hernandez. Don't ask me how old he is because I don't know. What I do know is that, like you, he's a man of principle. He doesn't marry people he doesn't believe to be in love."

Edward scoffed. "Does he read minds or what? How can he tell?"

"I don't know. Just be touchy-feely and look like you worship the ground I walk on."

"It will be difficult," Edward replied dryly.

Isabella nudged him, smiling. Edward killed the engine on a dusty driveway, and together they observed the three country houses in front of them. Edward replaced his contact lenses with glasses, and Isabella couldn't help but feel happy that out of all the people to get married to, it was this nerdy-looking fancy-pants.

"Why are you smiling?"

"No reason," she replied.

They didn't take off their wigs until a man with hunched back leaning on a cane closed the door behind them. Vicente Hernandez wore at least three scarves and his yellow linen shirt reached his knees. He was bald on top of his head but had white hair above his ears.

"My dear girl." He took Isabella's hands in his and kissed her cheeks. "Let me look at you." She didn't move as the man scrutinized her. "Such terrible shame what happened to your father. I have prayed for you every day."

"Thank you, Mr. Hernandez."

Isabella stepped into Edward's personal space. "This is my fiancé, Edward."

"It must be a brave man indeed who has won the heart of El Camaleón's daughter," Vicente Hernandez said, shaking Edward's hand. "You must know how lucky you are."

Edward pulled Isabella against him. "I do, sir."

Vicente Hernandez sat on the armrest of a couch, observing the couple as he questioned them. His speech was at least as slow as his mannerisms, but he had piercing eyes, and Isabella saw him examine their every look and touch. He didn't reveal his thoughts, and she had started to think that Mr. Hernandez might refuse to marry them until Jack Groover arrived.

Mr. Hernandez stood, walking to the unlit fireplace, saying nothing as he waited. His granddaughter Maria joined them, introduced herself to Edward and Jack Groover, and sat on the couch. Jack Groover took a seat on a nearby armchair.

Isabella slid her hand in Edward's before they walked up to Mr. Hernandez. There was no music, no flowers, no aisle.

"Dearly beloved, we are gathered here today…"

It felt surreal, listening to the man who had married her parents read the ceremony by heart, and she barely heard a word of it. Isabella and Edward exchanged the rings they'd worn for a month, and when their eyes met, the smile they shared felt conspiratory. She stood on her tiptoes before, briefly and gently, he brushed his lips against hers, and she felt like she was walking on air. Their two witnesses clapped. Isabella let out a small laugh and hid her face in Edward's chest. Grinning against her ear, he ran his hand up and down her back.

"Tu padre habría estado orgulloso de tu elección," Mr. Hernandez said, leaning on his cane as he observed their interaction.

"Estoy de acuerdo," she muttered, smiling shyly as she took Edward's hand. He was frowning, but she squeezed his hand without answering the question in his eyes.

They signed the papers. Having fun with the situation, Edward pulled her against him and whispered against her ear. "Congratulations, Mrs. Masen."

"I am _not_ changing my name," she whispered, earning a laugh.

Jack Groover and Maria Hernandez signed the witness form. Following Edward's instructions, Jack Groover took a photo with his iPhone, and so the only picture of their wedding was one of Edward, laughing against her hair, and Isabella looking down at their intertwined fingers, grinning.

"If we were only all so lucky to find a love like yours," Mr. Hernandez said as Isabella and Edward put on their jackets and wigs. Jack Groover left the house with them, and they stood in front of their trucks.

"I'll send the photo to the address you specified," Jack Groover said, smiling. "Remember, you have three days."

"I remember," Edward replied, shaking Jack's hand. "Thank you for doing this."

"You two take care of each other. You have a bumpy three months ahead of you."

The first bump happened a mere hour and a half later when their truck needed a jump start on Route 285 about 20 miles after Taos. Stopping a random stranger was dangerous, and Isabella pretended to sleep on the backseat as Edward found a lady in her fifties who was happy to let Edward use his crocodile clip to start their truck. Isabella sat on the passenger seat before they took off again.

"Do you think we should've waited 90 days?" Isabella asked.

"No," Edward replied. "If they're going to scrutinize everything we will do from this point on, they better not have a reason to question the beginning date of our marriage."

"How do you know Groover?"

"He used to work in Norfolk, Virginia with a friend of mine."

"He wasn't on our list of people to trust."

"He didn't have to be. He's seen that we must be undercover most of the time, but he has no proof of our false identities. It wouldn't matter even if he did start spilling his guts to the media because they will know we're married anyway. He's not our accomplice and can do whatever he wants, and the fact that he won't give us special treatment will only work in his—and our—favor in the spring."

"So if he's asked to testify…"

"He'll speak about what he saw, which is fine. We did nothing illegal in his presence, a fact I'm sure he's well aware of."

"It's convenient that he's a clerk in Taos County right next to Colfax."

"Between the two of us, we would've found a clerk in any state capable of keeping their mouth shut for a day or two."

It was true. Jack Groover's involvement couldn't really be called a lucky coincidence because if they found an ordained person in any state, any county, they would've probably found a clerk within that state willing to provide a marriage license. Whether or not any clerk could be trusted was another matter, but they were taking a risk even with Jack Groover. Whoever they picked, it would've been a risk.

But they had a bigger problem. Now that they were officially married and their marriage would become common knowledge in a few days, Edward's involvement (and face) would finally be known and shared in the media. By getting married, they had lost the advantage of people thinking she was escaping alone.

"How do you know Vicente Hernandez?"

"He'a a retired probate judge."

"Which answers my question how?"

"He used to be friends with my parents."

"How does this make any sense if you're not supposed to trust the people your father trusted?"

Isabella sighed. "First, like with your friend Jack Groover, we're not trusting him with anything we're involved in. Second, he's one of the few willing to marry people in our circumstances, and third, he has never done any business with my father. I checked."

"What about his daughter?"

"An innocent bystander to our wedding, and certainly not the only wedding she's had to sign the witness form for. She has a son and a daughter, no husband, and she works in retail. Nothing shady, nothing extraordinary, and if she does want to talk about this to the media, which I doubt, she will talk about what she witnessed, like Jack Groover. She's no less or more trustworthy than we can believe your friend Jack to be."

An unspoken understanding passed between them. They could never, not even with the nine people on their list, be one hundred percent certain that anyone could be trusted. Because people could be lied to. People could be manipulated. People could be tortured.

It was a grim topic for two newlyweds, and Isabella dropped the subject as she raised her legs on her seat. They had just gotten married. She was Mrs. Isabella Swan now, married to Edward Masen, a Marshal protecting her. For the rest of the world, their story had to be a tale of blossoming love in the midst of tension and chaos.

Lost in her thoughts, Isabella didn't realize that she'd been observing the same dirty white Ford F-150 appear and disappear in the rearview mirror. She slid her legs off the seat.

"I think we're being followed."

Edward glanced at the rearview mirror. "I know."

"What do we do?"

"Get the road atlas. Is there a place to turn before Antonito or should I wait until Alamosa?"

She checked their route.

"I think we should turn left on one of the roads before Alamosa. CO-15, 368, 370, or any of the tiny roads that don't have a name on this map."

"Does Alamosa have a rental?" Edward asked, keeping an eye on the pickup truck that was reducing speed yet again, starting to disappear out of sight.

"It has an airport," she replied, flipping to the beginning of the road atlas. "Wait, yes. It has a rental, close to the airport."

"Is your seatbelt fastened properly?"

"Yes."

His eyeglass case fell in her lap from the dashboard as he accelerated, and Isabella held on to the handle. Edward passed several cars, speeding at 80 miles per hour. In a minute, they were approaching 85.

Isabella shut her eyes. "Try to remember that it's not a computer game."

Edward passed cars on the right, grazing a mirror, and switched to the oncoming traffic to pass the slower cars and trucks. For a tense fifteen minutes, he drove like a maniac and shrugged off a police car as if he were, in fact, starring in GTA. Finally, Edward slowed down before CO-15, turned left and then right again on a smaller road. He continued with normal speed.

Isabella was breathing heavily, and her voice was strained. "Can you stop the truck, please?"

"We don't have time."

"One minute," she replied. Her face was pale. It felt like she was angry, and he knew they didn't have a single second for an argument. When he pulled the truck to a stop, he opened his mouth to defend himself but she'd already opened the truck door to vomit on the side of the road. He left the truck.

"Are you okay?"

"Never better," she replied before throwing up. He returned with water, and she spent a minute dry-heaving before they got moving again. She took deep breaths, sipping water.

"So much for my dream of becoming the next Dale Earnhardt," she said, sending him a weak smile. Color had started to return to her face.

Smiling, Edward squeezed her hand. "We need to leave this truck as soon as possible."

They drove north on smaller roads until pulling to a stop near a driveway close to Waverly where trees covered the view. He turned to reach for their backpacks as the double tap of a gunshot was followed by glass shattering. Isabella's passenger side window and the side window behind Edward had broken.

Edward reversed the truck on the road before accelerating. A red Honda Accord followed them.

Several people had to be cooperating to catch them if another car had been waiting for them. Someone had known, or noticed, their presence in New Mexico.

"Talk to me," Edward said. "Are you hurt?"

"There's a shard stuck to my elbow," she whispered, crouching. Cold wind whistled in their ears. "But I'm good."

"Don't take it out."

"I'm not stupid," she replied, voice strained. "You?"

"I'm fine."

Edward used all the tricks and diversions he knew of until, an hour later, they skidded to a stop in the middle of an empty road northeast from Hooper. They should've kept going, they should've already found another vehicle because they'd shrugged off their pursuer(s) half an hour ago, but Isabella was bleeding. He couldn't continue when she was hurt.

He took an emergency kit from the backseat and forced Isabella to look at him. She was pale. There were no tears in her eyes, but he would've felt better if there had been. They both had minor cuts on their hands, but the shard stuck to her elbow was two inches long and at least half an inch deep. It had cut through her jacket.

They'd pulled to a stop behind an abandoned shed, and Edward kept his ears alert for any unknown noise. He unzipped their emergency kit and laid it on top of the dashboard before pulling her legs on his lap to reach her right elbow. He cleaned his hands with a disinfectant.

"I'm going to pull out the shard and squeeze your elbow to reduce bleeding. The moment I let go, I need you to pull off your jacket so that I can see the wound, clean it and stitch it up."

"Okay," she whispered, bit the collar of her jacket and gripped her sleeve.

Knowing the dangers they faced, they were prepared to stitch each other up, at least when it came to equipment. They had a suture kit, but still, he was not a doctor, and he was sure his stitching abilities would cause her pain and leave an ugly scar.

"Do you still feel sick?" he asked, squeezing her elbow again now that she had pulled off her jacket. Wind blew through their truck. She shivered.

"I think nearly getting shot made me forget about my stomach," she replied, eyeing his face instead of her elbow. "A bit dizzy, maybe."

"You've lost some blood," he replied. "You should drink a lot after I'm done."

In an attempt not to think about what Edward was doing, and to distract herself from the pain, she asked, "Have you ever been shot?"

"Twice."

She had seen one scar under his chest on the left, but she hadn't seen the other one.

"Where?"

"Once in Detroit and once in New York."

She smiled but then grimaced. "No, I mean—where in your body?"

"One of the entry wounds is on the inside of my right shoulder blade, on my back, and the other one is on my stomach."

"What does it feel like?"

"I guess it depends on what kind of gun and bullet is used, what's the distance, where does it hit."

"But what did it feel like for you?"

His eyes met hers, unsure as to why she was asking, but immediately he realized she was distracting herself. He returned to the task at hand.

"I don't remember much when I got shot on my back. I was in Detroit. I felt shock, numbness, disbelief, and I blacked out within minutes. When I woke up at the hospital, I was pumped with drugs. But when I got shot in my stomach, I remember a pressure, intense shock, and the feeling of being on fire, a burning sensation in my stomach. I don't think there's a curse word that didn't go through my head, along with, why me, why now, why, why, why."

"How old were you?"

"I was twenty six, and…" He paused, thinking. "Twenty nine. My girlfriend at the time wanted me to quit my job."

"Did you consider it?"

"No," he replied, meeting her eyes. "I think that was the problem."

After he'd stitched her up, they checked the building to make sure nobody was in it. They ate, waiting for the sun to set, and started driving on small roads in the darkness, wearing and covered by as many clothes as they owned. During the four hours it took for them to reach Colorado Springs, Isabella called Jack Groover to make sure he was alive. He was. She also called Vicente Hernandez, and he, too, was alive, which meant that whoever had discovered them, had done it by accident, or in cooperation with Mr. Hernandez, Maria Hernandez, and/or Jack Groover.

In Colorado Springs, Isabella and Edward left their truck behind an unlit warehouse and walked to the first bus stop they could find. They took route 32 and got off at the Greyhound Station, where they bought two tickets to Denver. They didn't talk much but kept close to each other. She took off her shoes to sit on her legs, and leaned against Edward who was now wearing a light brown wig and a short beard. He held her against him. It was incredibly risky to sit on a Greyhound filled with people, but now that they'd made their truck famous, searching for a rental would've been—or at least _felt_ —a bit too obvious.

Edward pretended to have an English accent and Isabella, in spite of her rasta wig and glasses, didn't look at anyone.

They'd had a booking in Courtyard in Oklahoma City, Oklahoma, and a plan to stay in the south, but they couldn't be picky at the moment. Anything worked as long as they got away from New Mexico. Isabella had encrypted a few video cameras in gas stations and stores on their way to Oklahoma, places they had intended to visit, but they'd have to encrypt other stores wherever they went. They had a plan to catch their PDA on specific cameras in specific places and stores so that their displays of affection would be caught on camera, but couldn't be seen before Isabella decrypted the data. For the court to believe their marriage, they had to have proof, but in order to have protected data proving their affection (and location), they had to encrypt the data.

The risk of being recognized was too high to start making out in front of any camera.

It was minutes after midnight when they reached Denver, but another Greyhound was scheduled to leave at 12:30 AM to Cheyenne, Wyoming. Waiting, they sat on a bench away from security cameras, Isabella's legs laying in Edward's lap and head against his shoulder. He was observing people and playing with her hair. They were both tired.

"How does your elbow feel?"

"Stingy, but good."

"Do you want pain-killers?"

"I'm good."

It was 2:15 AM when they arrived in Cheyenne, and 2:30 when they arrived at Tenbrook Suites and Inn with their cab. Hungry and tired, they paid an extra fee for checking in in the middle of the night. Their room on the third floor had a single king-sized bed. They took short showers and neither turned on the TV. Their car chase (and truck, if it had already been found) was probably on the news. Their marriage, too, might be shocking the public, but neither had the energy to check. What was important was that, they were together, alive, and (relatively) unharmed.

She didn't remember that it was their wedding night until she almost left the bathroom in her pajamas. She'd worn a matching set of blue lingerie for the wedding, mostly because it made her feel confident, but if their relationship and behavior was going to be analyzed in painstaking detail, he needed to have a better answer than "beige shorts and a tank top". So she changed into the lingerie and exited the bathroom, dreading yet hoping that Edward would be asleep.

He wasn't. He was wearing his glasses, reading, and when he heard the door open, he put down the book and said, "I was just thinking, we should—"

She didn't find out what they should or shouldn't do because she was reborn again in his gaze. He blinked and scooted closer to the headboard. The blanket fell on his waist, and he cleared his throat.

"Isabella." His voice was tense. "What are you doing?"

She blushed to the roots of her hair and down to her toes. She should've warned him. She should've made a joke and struck a pose for the fun of it. She did neither.

"They're going to ask what I was wearing on our wedding night," she replied, trying to keep her voice even. "So here's the answer that's going to match."

She made a circle around herself. She'd thought she could do this light-heartedly, for the fun of it, but he didn't seem to take it that way at all.

"Okay," Edward replied before he sighed, lowering his face and covering it with his hand. The idea that she'd upset him mortified her, and as she closed the bathroom door behind her, she felt another kind of blush cover her, one of shame. She looked at herself in the mirror and washed her face with cold water. Why did she do this again? Was it vanity? Thoughtlessness? She hadn't meant to tease him, but that's exactly how she felt. Had she wanted him to find her attractive? To want her? Well, of course. Did she have to act like a teenager for that to happen?

They could've, after all, simply agreed on what their answer would be.

Filled with humiliation and apologies she didn't want to voice, she waited for a few minutes to calm down and sneaked out of the bathroom in her plain pajamas. She would've felt better if he'd turned off the bedside lamp, but he was exactly in the same position, facepalming. She walked up to the bed, lifting the edge of the blanket when he looked up. Watching her, he ran fingers through his hair. There was no mirth in his eyes.

"What were you trying to achieve?"

She felt like she was sent to the principal's office, and she'd never been this mortified in her life. When she realized her lips were trembling, she pressed them tightly together and blinked, looking away. Why did she feel like crying? She was an idiot. She never cried in front of people, not when she didn't want to. She stared at the ceiling, feeling a blush of shame on her neck, blinking rapidly. She refused to cry. She wouldn't cry.

She would _not_ cry, not in front of Edward, not in front of anyone, not ever.

"Isabella."

He tried to get her attention, but she hung her head. Knowing that her voice would tremble if she spoke, she swallowed and waited for half a minute to speak.

"Would you mind turning off the lamp?"

Her voice was timid, but at least it didn't tremble.

He switched off the lamp. Isabella covered herself with the blanket and stayed as far away from Edward as their bed allowed. She felt like she'd tried to seduce him. She hadn't thought it through, she'd thought it would all be fun and games and he'd take it as such, but unlike her, he was the voice of sanity. She felt like a careless teenager desperate for the attention of a jock. She felt bad that she felt like crying because it must've seemed manipulative for him to see her fight tears. Then, she felt bad that she wanted him to hold her when she made such reckless decisions. What _had_ she been trying to achieve?

She'd acted like a teenager, and he had every right to be upset.

"Isabella," he repeated.

"I am sorry," she whispered, finally, taking a sharp breath. "I'm sorry."

She could hear him shuffle. "Hey—it's okay. You didn't do anything wrong. Nothing happened."

"I'm sorry. I was careless."

"It's all good, really." He sighed. "This is complicated enough without imagining that the emotions we fake for the public are real."

If she didn't feel like cold water had been poured in her heart, she would've cried.

"Do you understand what I'm saying?" he asked, softly.

"Of course," she replied. "You're always the voice of reason."

He paused.

"You did nothing wrong."

He was letting her down easy, and she hated every word of it. Not that she'd expected anything. In spite of her rash actions, she thought he'd shrug and smile and make a dry comment about the lack of straps on her bra. She thought she'd get changed again and crawl under the blanket, close to him, and ask him to hold her again as she slept.

When did she become so _needy_? When did she start making these silly, girly decisions, and having these _emotional_ reactions to his well-reasoned arguments?

Barely any sounds could be heard in their hotel room except for the buzz of air-conditioner.

"Do you want to hold my hand to sleep better?"

"No," Isabella replied, turning away. "I think it's time I got over that."

She could see the dim, cloudy day from the window when she woke up. The quiet murmur of Edward's voice, sleepy and gravelly, could be heard through the cracked bathroom door.

"No, she's not pregnant." Edward paused. "She's a United States citizen, why would she need a green card?" He sighed. "Mature, really? You've never even met her. I know she's young… yes, I saw the news. Our age difference is the least of our problems… I understand you were rooting for Kate, but, things change. People change. People move on, and so should you. Yes, well, I'm sure she feels much more indifferent toward my marriage than you seem to think."

Isabella straightened her arm and observed the dried blood on her bandage. It stung, still, and the bandage colored further as she moved her forearm.

"You'll meet her. She's… she's different. Of course I love her, why would I have married her? … I know I said that. People change. Maybe I was just waiting for the right person."

Isabella could hear water running before Edward appeared on the doorstep, chin covered in foam. He locked eyes with her and smiled apologetically.

"Do you want to speak to her? I'm afraid I woke her up. I'm sure she'd be happy to introduce herself, especially after hearing your thoughts about her gold-digging criminal tendencies."

Edward listened and scoffed, but he was smiling.

"Very well, then. Me, too."

He hung up and returned to the bathroom. When he reappeared, he was wiping the burner phone from foam, and sat on the edge of the bed.

"I'm afraid it might take some time for my mother to get used to this idea."

Isabella sat up. "That's okay. I should call Rosalie, too."

"She'll probably know. They're covering our marriage and the car chase, but they haven't made the connection yet. It's just a matter of finding our truck, now."

It was nine AM. She had to continue working on Carlisle's location (among other things), but first, they had to disappear off the face of the Earth, at least until Christmas. After checking out of their hotel, they walked for several miles before finding and buying a dark grey and sufficiently nondescript 1999 Ford F250 for $7,500. It was a risk to buy a truck in a small place like this, but they were going to switch vehicles at the first opportunity anyway. Time was more important. They drove northwest on the Wyoming Highway 211 (Horse Creek Road) before opting for smaller roads.

Observing the road atlas that was open on her lap, Isabella dialed one of Rosalie's numbers.

"Rosalie."

"Why hello."

Rosalie paused. "You sneaky bastard! Tell me you were crying on Blue's shoulder before he wrapped you up in his arms and had intensely pleasurable comfort sex on the balcony of a hotel."

Edward raised eyebrows at the mention of a nickname he hadn't heard before.

Isabella laughed. "Oh, yeah. That's totally what happened."

"It better be. They've just put out APBs on you, so it might be smart to have sex inside the hotel from now on."

"APBs?" Edward asked. "When?"

"Half an hour ago," Rosalie replied, having heard him.

"National?"

"Anything less would be pointless."

"Are we suspects or persons of interest?"

"Either. I don't know yet."

"Anything else we should know?" Edward asked, loud enough for Rosalie to hear.

"CNN is sniffing a connection between some truck in—wait—Colorado Springs, a car chase, and… your previous whereabouts. Are they on to something?"

Isabella and Edward, unsurprised (but not thrilled), locked eyes.

"Thank you, Rosalie. Isabella is lucky to have you."

"Anytime, Blue. Sepiida? This is the third one I'm burning."

Once Isabella had called one of her numbers three times, Rosalie destroyed the phone.

The area surrounding them was unremarkable in color and scenery. The horizon was brown and flat under the grey sky. They drove parallel to a power line. Isabella played with the radio, trying to find a station that didn't rustle, but gave up soon. She watched Edward drive in silence and dozed off a couple of times. Few cars passed them.

"Isabella?"

She hummed, blinking at him, and wrapped arms around her legs.

"About last night…"

She hid her face on her folded arms.

"Isabella?"

"I'm pretending to sleep because the awkwardness level of this conversation is too damn high."

Edward hesitated.

"I didn't mean to upset you."

"Good. I didn't mean to upset you, either," she replied. "Good conversation, great feedback. Can we talk about something else?"

"I just want to make sure we're okay."

She groaned and watched the passing scenery. She was not a fan of talking about feelings, but seeing him make an effort, she knew she had to meet him half-way. She owed him that much.

"I didn't mean to make it look like I was seducing you," she admitted quietly, feeling herself redden. "I don't know what I was trying to achieve. It was an intense day, and I think we've confirmed that I make stupid decisions when I'm tired. It was silly. I guess I thought you'd laugh and throw a pillow at me or something, but instead, you turned into this disapproving superior. It was sufficiently mortifying and I'm not eager to replay the experience by talking about it."

Edward scoffed, laughing and shaking his head, and the array of reactions confused Isabella. He stared off into distance, letting out a breath, and an embarrassed smile covered his lips.

"I'm sorry," he said.

"S'okay."

"It's been a while since I had sex."

"It's been so long that the sight of a woman in underwear upsets you?"

He chuckled but covered her hand with his and intertwined their fingers. "You are beautiful," he said. "But if you show up to bed in your underwear, I might convince you to… remove the cobwebs."

Isabella laughed.

"The scandal! A husband who dares to have sex with his wife!"

Edward smiled. "It would be a bad idea to get carried away in the faking, that's all. It's too complicated. We're only just building our friendship."

She sighed, observing his profile. He had a point, even if she hated it.

"You are too good of a man," Isabella said, pressing an innocent kiss on the back of his hand. "If you don't become an asshole soon, I might never divorce you."

He grinned. They made a good team as long as they kept clearing the air.

"So what does blue stand for?" he asked, eyes glinting with humor.

"Nosy old men."

He made a face. "Flattering."

* * *

 **Translations:**

Tu padre habría estado orgulloso de tu elección. - Your father would've been proud of your choice.

Estoy de acuerdo. - I agree.


	14. A Cabin in the Woods

…

 **Emma Matthews**  
by Anton M.

 **Chapter 14: A Cabin in the Woods**

…

Isabella shut the engine a hundred feet away from a gas station. Two cars were parked in front of the store. It was December 3, a Thursday, and they were in Dickinson, North Dakota.

Mindful of cameras, Edward and Isabella walked up to the store, hand in hand. As agreed, they stopped next to a gas station post, half of which hid them from the two cameras. Edward lowered his head, making eye contact and causing the silliest butterflies in her stomach. Isabella took hold of his scarf, and, seeing nobody around, showed a glimpse of her face to the camera before pulling him into a kiss. He grinned before backing her up against the post. His fingers were cold against her jaw, but his lips and the taste of cinnamon distracted her. When he withdrew, she was breathless and chewing his cinnamon-flavored gum. Seeing him flushed, her lipstick around his lips, she felt cherished, and wiped away the color with her thumb.

"What do you want for dinner?" he asked, quietly, as if this were the most intimate conversation.

"Asparagus," she replied, whispering against his ear. "With blue cheese."

He scoffed a laugh. She disliked both food items.

For these precious few minutes a day, it _felt_ real. She knew he was faking it, of course. Wanting to keep her alive had made him a good actor. But it didn't escape her that she didn't have to pretend. It was the easiest thing in the world to kiss Edward. He was handsome and kind, a good kisser and probably the best man she'd ever know.

It gave her no comfort to know that it took no effort on her part to show her affection. She wasn't faking, and yes, it hurt.

But she didn't allow herself to focus on it, and she didn't hold a grudge. He'd had a point, refusing her, and she didn't proposition him again. (If, indeed, what she'd done two nights ago could be called a proposition.) She was taking it one day at a time. His behavior around her remained unchanged, and their trust strengthened every day. She couldn't ask for more.

They never spoke about these few minutes except in the context of proof (of the authenticity of their relationship), and those minutes were nothing if not carefully planned. Edward knew a lot more about cameras than she did, so he determined whether a camera had built-in infrared illuminators and IR shooting capability so that maybe they could do this at night, with fewer people around and without being too obvious. They found a couple of cameras which did have infrared illuminators, and used them, but there were also a few that were neither HD nor IP-network compatible, and might as well have been replaced by a can of tomatoes.

It wasn't the CSI, where a vague three-pixel blur could be changed to an HD multi-megapixel IP camera image with the perfect resolution. Yet, they couldn't take risks. In order to be less obvious, they planned their strategy for each store and gas station. After they explored the area and the camera they were dealing with (always IP-network compatible), Isabella hacked into the system and encrypted the footage. They showed their displays of affection (that wouldn't show up on the store surveillance screen) before Isabella switched the few minutes of camera footage with a clip that didn't star them, and merged the videos so that the change would be virtually unrecognizable.

In the end, their PDA footage was in her hands, and she planned switch it back before their relationship was questioned. They had to have proof of their affection, and if hearing criticism of the (seeming) sloppiness of security personnel was the way to do it ("how could you not have seen them sooner?"), that's what she had to do.

During the next week, they taped eight videos of their PDA in three gas stations and five stores. Their behavior was dangerous beyond the scope of taping their faces—in order to be recognizable later, the change to their appearance had to be minimal and yet enough to divert attention if the occasional passer-by were to observe them. In the end, Edward convinced Isabella that her face was more recognizable and, therefore, she was often the one who had to wear a wig and/or makeup. But if neither changed their appearance, seeing the footage later would raise the question of whether they had deliberately taped themselves _as_ themselves.

Like a rubber band, they had to pull this off enough to be convincing but not enough to break it, and the balance would be delicate to hold for three months.

But for now, they planned to escape for an undetermined amount of time.

In order to do that, they focused on learning the identities of Perry and Doreen Mills from Bismarck and Minot, North Dakota, who intended to rent a cabin next to the Cherokee National Forest in the western corner of North Carolina about forty miles south of Watauga Lake. They planned intricate details of their appearance and history, and switched their Ford F250 to a Dodge pickup.

Isabella dealt with a company who provided satellite internet for remote businesses, and they bought a 1.5 m dish along with a transmitter, a modem, software and an ISP. She sent Rosalie a Turret Desk Defender as a gag Christmas present, and helped Edward pick out presents for his mother and sister.

On December 8, a Tuesday, they reached Newport, Tennessee, to meet Sam Uley, a 60-year-old stockbroker they'd found through a website who'd inherited the cabin from his aunt and rented it out (or attempted to) for six months every winter. As they ate lunch together at Grill 73, Isabella and Edward carefully observed his expression and mannerisms to make sure there wasn't a hint of doubt or recognition on the man's part, but neither found any. They made a deposit before receiving the keys and directions to his cabin.

Two and a half hours later, they pulled up in front of a two-floor wooden cabin on the side of a mountain, surrounded by trees. After examining the area for any recording devices, they spent the day on setting up their satellite dish on a small clearing fifty yards from the house, and on connecting all necessary equipment. Isabella received a decent signal on her fourth attempt.

They placed three cameras around the house and a separate camera two miles down the road before making a fire in the fireplace and exploring the house. The walls were old, dark logs, the kitchen was connected to the living room, and they had a single bedroom. The upstairs, Sam Uley had said, was usually used during the summer and pulling down the attic stairs would've only made it harder to warm up the house. After bringing in their backpacks, grocery bags and a shared duffel bag, Edward and Isabella started making dinner together. It had been a month since they'd been able to spend time on routine and homely things like cooking. Edward, even though he hadn't complained, was visibly relieved. Isabella enjoyed seeing him relax.

For the past week, they had put their time and energy on having a seamless backstory and unrecognizable appearances. Everything mattered this time. If they got it right, with a bit of luck, they might be able to stay here for three months, and that would be a relief for both of them.

"How's your elbow?" Edward asked, dumping the vegetables she'd chopped on a pan. Isabella sat on the kitchen table.

"It's getting there. Hasn't bled since Saturday."

He smiled, turning back to his chicken, and she observed him as he prepared dinner. Part of her wished that they'd stayed in hotels or had guests if only because of how affectionate he was with her when others were around. At moments like these, he kept a friendly, professional distance and even though she understood, she wished he didn't.

They eyed the windows and the darkness outside. Wind moved the treetops. The fireplace cracked.

"It's quite remarkable, this place," Edward said, leaning against the counter opposite her. "It almost feels normal."

She agreed. The peace didn't feel real.

They finished making dinner and sat down to eat.

"My sister has a birthday on Thursday," Edward said. "I've never skipped it. Do you think you could arrange a video call? I'd like you to meet her."

"That depends. Is she going to ask me if I'm pregnant?"

"She might."

"Oh, well. Maybe I should wear a pillow just to get 'em talking."

Smiling, he scoffed.

The growing ease between them was remarkable, and felt quite strange considering they hadn't taken a breather since forever, it seemed.

"No offense to your encryption skills, but I think it's safer if we find a hotel and use another IP address."

"I agree."

A clock in the living room ticked loudly, and they listened to it.

"Where did you get that amulet?"

The green string had hung around her neck next to the golden penguin since the evening of their wedding. Isabella had expected Edward to demand answers after their marriage ceremony, but they'd been too busy focusing on other arrangements to chat. But she had no reason to keep information from him anymore.

"My father gave it to me on my second day of school," Isabella answered, gripping the amulet. It had a silver zigzag pattern on the edges and a precious stone in the middle, obscure, blue and fake. "I was in a weird mood after mom's funeral and gave it to Seth as a gift of gratitude. He kept it."

Edward paused, chewing and staring at her.

"He's my godfather," she explained.

"I'm sorry?"

"He's my godfather," Isabella repeated. "My father held him in very high regard, but I guess that doesn't really help your opinion of him. For the rest of the world, he was a friend of my mother's, and as far as I'm concerned, the rest of the world can continue to think so."

Edward put down his fork and blinked at her.

"I assume expressing incredulity doesn't really change anything. How in the world did he become a marshal and lived to get assigned to _you_?"

"I don't know. All I know is that it wasn't a coincidence that he was the second person assigned to me. He did something."

"Are you still in touch with him?"

"I let him know that we're alive around every two weeks."

"And you think he can be trusted?"

"He risked his life to help me expose Carlisle. Does that sound like someone you wouldn't trust?"

Edward leaned against the back of the seat, taking in this new information. "Wow."

It felt good to have a person to share information with, and Isabella looked down at her plate, taking a breath. It would be necessary to share more. Maybe even easy. She'd already started.

"I think you should know that I did betray my father," she said quietly. "My cooperation with the DEA started before he got his diagnosis, and he didn't know about it until it blew up with that video of me walking into that office and sending all that precious material to the FBI in broad daylight."

Edward turned, resting his legs on the spindle of her chair. He'd seen the footage, of course. She got shot twice, once in her chest and once in her stomach, but she was wearing a bullet-proof vest.

"You nearly got yourself killed."

"Kevlar," she replied, like she hadn't heard him. She locked eyes with him. "Sounds like a vest we should be wearing every moment of every day, huh?"

He nodded, resting elbows on his knees and pressing his lips tightly together as he looked at her. She knew that look. He was about to tell her that she'd made the right choices, that her father had been a criminal and deserved everything coming his way.

"Look," Isabella continued. "I don't really care if you know this, but you kept asking and pushing and I'm afraid the real answer will be a bit of an anticlimax. It was my second year of undergrad, and I had just made friends with Rosalie. I was growing increasingly aware of what my father had been doing and there was a professor who kept pushing boundaries with discussions, at least for me, and I started feeling like it was my _duty_ to expose them. The DEA needed a person right when I'd made up my mind to act, and I suppose I was part of that world for so long nobody suspected me of anything until it was too late."

"What did you father do when he found out?"

"He was not pleased. By the time he found out, we'd had those nightly discussions when he gave me the information on all those people who, in his mind, had to be exposed, but that made my betrayal even worse because he thought I'd seen the humane aspect of criminals for so long I'd exclude them from exposure. I didn't. He wanted to be the one to play God, but I played God for him. I made my own decisions, and he found that outrageously insulting. He taught me to think for myself and when I finally did, he thought I'd betrayed him. Which, of course… I did."

Observing her face, he took hold of her hand. "I'm sorry you had to go through with that."

She smiled. "Not your fault."

They finished dinner, did the dishes together, and sat on the couch. Isabella's words rang in his ears, still.

Having finished reading the works of Agatha Christie—because that's just how much time Isabella spent programming—he had picked up _The Coffin Dancer_ by Jeffery Deaver. Nevertheless, he was glad to see a book shelf in the cabin because while his hardcover had 358 pages, he was sure to finish it before she'd said another word. Like he'd thought, she set up her laptop on the living room table, but she shut the lid and sat on her legs, turning to him.

"I have people," she said quietly, like she was admitting a secret.

"Like a slave owner?"

She pushed his shoulder. "No! Relaxing does strange things to your sense of humor."

"You mean I start to have one?"

She laughed.

"Okay, you _have_ people. I'm intrigued. Tell me more."

"What I mean is, there's people who help me do what I do."

"Rosalie, Eric, Jessica and what's-his-name? You told me."

"I mean, more people. People who, depending on the information I share with them, have instructions to use that information to expose those who might otherwise not be exposed, either because of their connections or occupation. Some program, some protect, some are ready to hide us if the going gets tough."

Edward stared at her. "You have _vigilantes_?Under _your_ supervision?"

"Yes. No. I mean… like Rodrigo Duterte? I don't know if I'd call them vigilantes…"

"There are people fighting crime, connected to you, who do it without the legal right to do so? I hate to break it to you, but that's what vigilantes are all about."

"Well, no, then. We do not fight crime, we reveal evidence."

"Evidence that is gathered using illegal measures."

Isabella cringed at the disapproval in his voice. "Sometimes other means are too complicated. Do you think anyone would have been arrested if I'd left hints about Carlisle? My father left hints _all over_ the place, and what did Marion Pasquier do? The Director of the FBI had so many connections related to Carlisle he didn't even bat an eyelash. He _actively_ hid all the facts from the public."

"Can you prove it?"

"No. But I aim to, in whatever capacity I can."

"Isabella…"

"Yes."

"How many vigilantes do you have?"

She grimaced. "They're not vigilantes, and that was bad wording. I don't _have_ them, they're their own people."

"How many?"

"Maybe seventy. Maybe a hundred. Something like that."

"Under _your_ supervision?"

"I… wouldn't call it that. But, yeah, they do get most of their guidance from me."

"Do they know who you are?"

"Are you _out of your_ _mind_? Of course not."

"But Rosalie and your three friends know."

"Well, yeah. _Somebody_ has to."

Edward rested his arm on the back of the couch, staring. He should've expected something like this. He'd married her for the express purpose of learning these things without putting her life and freedom in danger, but it still felt surreal. The innocent-looking young woman he'd married had an army of people at her beck and call, ready to deliver justice where the authorities could not because said authorities had failed to deliver justice in their own actions.

"How many would you trust to hide us?"

"Only the three on our list of people to trust. "

"How many know who you are?"

"Eight, if you include Rosalie and the others."

He could see that she expected him to scoff or argue or scold her for breaking the law (and admitting it), but he did none of those things. While he had postponed suggesting marriage because he wanted to be sure she'd trust him enough to be open to the idea, his main reason was to have time to figure out if he wanted to put himself in a position of being aware of law-breaking. It was a responsibility to be privy to information this delicate, but more than the exposed material itself, the _means_ needed to reveal this material was the real precarious matter, at least when it came to Isabella. He could've refrained from testifying against her with the information she didn't share, and he would have, but he suspected too much, he was too curious and, in the end, he felt too disgusted by Carlisle's crimes. Her actions were a means to an end, and he found that he _could_ condone her behavior. Her heart was in the right place.

Isabella raised her eyebrows when he didn't respond.

"What? No disapproving scoff?"

Edward shifted closer to her, letting his arm drop from the back of the couch on her shoulders. Her knees fell on his lap, but she didn't move away as she eyed him. He sighed.

"I'm sorry if I've seemed unappreciative of your intentions."

She blinked in surprise.

"I still get into these arguments with you despite the fact that the moment we got married, the issue was settled. Whether or not you're breaking the law no longer matters when it comes to us. But… I'm a law-enforcement officer. I've been taught to be unyielding in these matters. It's hard to change overnight."

"It's quite okay."

She rested her head against his arm, and he eyed her dark eyes and sharp nose. He felt her every touch as she started playing with his fingertips, and realized that it had been a week since they'd been comfortable with each other like this, in private. He was relieved it was far from awkward.

"Anything new on Carlisle?"

Still grazing his fingertips with her own, Isabella sighed. "I wish I had a better answer for you, but Carlisle is too experienced in hiding other people not to be an expert at hide-and-seek."

"Are your friends helping you?"

"With this? No."

"Why not?"

"If anyone gets it wrong, they're dead, and I feel much better playing with my own life than anyone else's. And if he manages to turn things around for me, nobody will be associated with him, not even through encryption."

"I won't let you die."

Giving him a sad smile, she squeezed his hand, pausing.

"I haven't looked for him since Sunday. I'm trying to get through to Whitlock."

"Whitlock?" Edward frowned. "Why? Do you think he's with Carlisle?"

"No. I have no opinion." Isabella shifted until her knees leaned against the side of his chest so that she could see his face, fully. "I can see that his possible betrayal bothers you, and I want to give you a peace of mind regardless of the choices he made."

Edward stared at her wide, sincere eyes, and felt affection surge through him. He pulled her toward him, wrapping his other arm around her. She was looking in her lap.

"Thank you," Edward muttered, nudging her chin to see her face. Hers was inches from his, and she locked eyes with him.

"You're welcome." She relaxed into him but kept rubbing her shins, averting her gaze. His eyes lingered on her lips.

"I know it's a bit awkward, it's not your job, and I told you it's time I got over it, but I still kinda sleep better when you're holding my hand." Her smile was small. "I know you don't want anything to happen, and I'm not going to attack you or anything. You can just push me off the bed if I snuggle and stuff. But I really, kinda, holding your hand just helps me. It's stupid, but it helps."

Edward pulled her legs over his lap and pressed her against him in a proper hug. She exhaled, wrapping her arms around his neck.

"All you have to do is ask."

He pressed his lips against her temple, lingering against her skin as he hugged her. She didn't dare to move, and he held her for several minutes until she resumed programming.

On Wednesday, December 9, Isabella and Edward bought a cheap tablet to use for the phone call and drove four hours to Blairsville, Georgia, to spend the night in Lakeside Inn. Isabella had encrypted everything she could, but they couldn't be too careful.

Because Tanya set off to work at 08:30, they'd agreed to call her an hour earlier as she got ready. Isabella was nervous. She sat, arms around her legs, pressed against Edward. He, in turn, was leaning against the headboard and had his arm around her shoulders. He placed her legs on his lap, pulling her closer.

"Won't this be kind of an overkill?" Isabella asked, referring to their proximity.

"I think she'll be upset enough that she didn't get to attend our wedding or meet you. Seeing us happy will make her smile."

Not able to argue with his logic, she leaned her head against his shoulder. His hair was messy and eyes sleepy, and she would've loved to bury her face in the crook of his neck and stay there. Instead, she snuck her hand around his waist and tickled him. He let out a laugh, grabbing her wrist.

" _Mature_ ," he said, smiling. She scoffed a laugh when he reciprocated. When Tanya accepted their call, she found them laughing and whispering to each other. Edward was holding both Isabella's wrists in his hand to prevent a tickle attack, even though she hadn't moved since his sister's face had appeared on the screen.

Tanya had Edward's defined eyebrows and ginger curly hair that reached just below her ear.

"Hello, sis," Edward said, almost shyly. "I'm sorry I can't be there with you this year. Happy birthday."

"Thank you," Tanya replied. "So why are you making me cook for my own birthday this year?"

"Because you're 28 now."

"Bite me."

Tanya's eyes flickered between them.

"Isabella, this is my little sister Tanya. Tanya, this is my… wife, Isabella."

Tanya smiled. "Great to finally see you in person! I'm curious. Mom thinks you're pregnant."

" _Tanya_."

"What? I'm curious! You were always indifferent to marriage, every time we've discussed it, and now mom and I had to learn through the _news_ that you got hitched? You're totally the kind of guy who'd get married out of responsibility."

"I am not."

"You _so_ are. So are you expecting? Or is it so early you're not allowed to reveal yet? First trimester?"

Isabella, locking eyes with Edward, was reminded by the last time they were asked about children more than a month ago. Edward pressed his lips against Isabella's hair before he replied,

"No. Isabella's not pregnant."

"Really?"

"Really."

"That's a shame."

Edward scoffed a laugh, attempting to change the subject. "So how're you? How's work?"

"I've read discussions about your marriage and escape on every website since last Tuesday and you want to talk about my _work_? My work is _fine_." Tanya leaned closer to her computer, grinning. "What I really want to know is how _this_ —" She waved her finger back and forth. "— _really_ happened."

Edward and Isabella, once again, made eye contact. Edward let his hands drop from around her wrists and wrapped an arm around her waist, buying time.

For Isabella, the focus of their conversation felt strange, there was an ease you wouldn't expect from the sister of a guy whose life was in danger, but she didn't know Tanya. Maybe she was just a ball of optimism (and/or denial). Maybe she didn't follow the news. Maybe she didn't want to admit the severity of the situation. Maybe she didn't want Edward to worry.

Maybe it was all of the above.

Tanya's smile widened, and when Edward looked at her, her eyes were wide and she had a hand in front of her mouth, laughing. "You fell _in love_. I thought you loved Kate, but you were never this comfortable with PDA with her. You were never like this. You _totally_ fell in love. Admit it! Was it love at first sight?"

Edward, embarrassed, averted his gaze for a second.

"Yes," he replied. "I did. It was."

"Aww, Anthony." Tanya threw her fist in the air. "I _knew_ it. I told mom that maybe you were just so whipped that—"

"I'm not whipped—"

"Isabella, does Anthony let you step in the kitchen when he's cooking?"

"Hey—"

Isabella, deciding to play along with Tanya's reaction to seeing her brother get married in secret, smacked her palm against Edward's mouth. She leaned forward, whispering, "He _does_. He even lets me _help_."

Her eyes were twinkling with mirth.

Tanya gasped in mock-horror. " _So_ whipped. He didn't even let Kate do that, and they were together for _four_ years!"

Isabella grinned, enjoying Edward's normal, fun sister. "I'm really lucky to have Edward."

Tanya paused, forgetting to tease her older brother as she stared at Isabella. "He lets you call her Edward?"

Hesitating, Isabella gauged Edward's reaction, but he was looking at the keyboard.

"He does."

Tanya sat back, looking a bit stunned. "So this is for real?"

"It is," Edward said, smiling at his sister. "It's for real."

"Wow. I guess I'm a bit surprised, still." Tanya sighed, observing the couple. Her face sobered as she showed the first sign of worry. "Are you guys okay? I miss you."

"I miss you, too," Edward said. "So how are you, really?"

"I'm good. Not used to seeing your ugly face show up in the news so much, but we're okay. I'm also seeing this new guy, Tyler. Tyler Crowley."

Edward sat up straight. Isabella paled, but neither noticed.

"Does he treat you well?"

"He's a sweetheart. He's like a business management something-or-other, and he came to have a haircut, like, three times in two weeks. No guy cares about their hair that much, and so he kind of asked me out. It's new and exciting. I like him."

"Let me know if he needs a friendly threat from a scary older brother."

"You are _so_ not going to scare away another guy I like—"

"I haven't scared anyone away—"

"You have! You _so_ have. Remember when I was doing internship in Philly, and Jared Gormac wanted to ask me out, you totally—"

Isabella shut them out, thinking. Her own feelings for Edward were complicated enough to untangle and understand, now she had to make sure Tyler would let her know immediately if things didn't work out.

Isabella hadn't fully understood Edward's reasons for denying her until now. Because, if they tried it out and it didn't work out, either of them might became bitter and she might die or lose her freedom as a consequence. By not allowing anything to develop, Edward must've thought he was _protecting_ her.

Either that, or he'd wanted to let her down easy.

"Listen…" Edward was saying, "I'm sorry I never really told you the details of my job. I didn't want to worry you."

"Yeah, yeah. As if I ever thought you were really working at the office, nine to five. It's not your style."

Edward blinked, absorbing this new information. "You never thought—"

"Oh, please. Don't insult my intelligence. But, hey, I have to go, Tyler is picking me up in five and I've yet to find a blouse that fits these pants. Let me know that you're okay every once in a while, yeah? It's kind of scary to only hear about you from the news."

"We will. Stay safe, Tanya."

"Lovely to meet you, Isabella. Make sure my brother eats something deliciously unhealthy every once in a while." She sent them an air kiss and disconnected the call.

Watching the scenery pass them by as they drove back to North Carolina, Isabella rubbed her shins and kept glancing at Edward. She didn't know the best way to approach the subject with him and his reaction made her nervous.

"Your sister seems so easy-going. I envy her."

Edward smiled. "She's our Pollyanna. Always has been."

"Do you think she understands the kind of danger you're putting yourself in?"

"I hope not." Edward glanced at her. "But, I don't think she wanted to tell me even if she were concerned or having troubles in her life. She wouldn't want me to worry."

"Like you."

Edward offered a pursed lips smile.

"You're a really good actor," Isabella said. "First Mr. Hernandez, and now your sister. You're very good at this."

"Ditto."

Little did he know she didn't need to act.

"There's something I've been wanting to tell you."

Edward only tilted his head on the side to encourage her to continue.

"I know Tyler Crowley."

He paused before tightening his grip on the steering wheel. "If you tell me he was an employee of your father, I swear to god I'll personally show up on her doorstep tonight."

"No. But the moment you agreed to help me, I assigned body-guards to your mother and sister."

"You're kidding me."

"No. Nothing sinister, I swear. Not like stalkers or anything, just someone to make sure they made it home and work alive and that nobody was stalking them."

"You hired stalkers to stalk stalkers?"

"I hired _body-guards_ to ensure the safety of your _family_. Would you rather have a dead mother or a body-guard making sure that she arrives home safely every day and that no hitmen have been spotted around her?"

Edward's voice was low. "You should've told me."

"I agree."

"You should've told me the moment you made it happen."

"I agree."

"You should've told me so that I could tell them whose creepy stalking shouldn't disturb them."

"I agree, I agree, I agree. I get it, I should've told you sooner, I should've not prioritized our escape, and I should've remembered. It's only, like, the 427th thing on my list of details to remember."

"This is a breach of privacy."

"To a degree, yes, but their body-guards are decent people. It's not like they're going to watch them in their underwear."

Edward's jaw tightened. "Really? Then what is it that you wanted to tell me about your friend Tyler?"

Isabella sighed, and in a smaller voice, replied, "He was supposed to keep his distance."

"Is he trustworthy?"

"Yes."

"How do you know him?"

"I helped prove his father's innocence in a case that couldn't be solved without hacking. Tyler has felt like he owed me ever since, and because he lived close to Scranton and has been to the army… it felt like the time to ask. He agreed to my terms."

"What does he do?"

"He's an account manager for a furniture company."

"Seriously?"

Isabella smiled. "Do you expect me to only know criminals, hackers and SWAT team members? People do have normal jobs every once in a while."

"He'll have to come clean to my sister."

"I know. I will talk to him. And if she freaks out and ends whatever it is that they're doing, I need him to tell me, too. I'll have to find someone willing to move to Scranton for this job, and for her own sake, I hope she agrees to _some_ arrangement with _someone_."

Isabella rested her head on her knees, thinking.

"If you liked me and we were to try it out but our real relationship failed miserably and you grew to resent me, would you continue to protect me? Or would you admit our marriage was a sham and testify against me?"

Edward paused for half a minute, focusing on driving.

"I would protect you." He pursed his lips together, glancing at her, sighing. "I have a few buddies in the police who've been checking in on my mother and sister, but… thank you for keeping an eye out for my family, too. I'm not thrilled that you didn't tell me, but as always, your intentions seem honorable. But I still prefer that they knew."

Even though Isabella and Edward had kept their eyes on the cameras around the cabin, they both felt slightly paranoid returning to their temporary home, but nothing seemed out of place.

Edward developed a routine: Krav Maga work-out in the morning, breakfast, analyzing Carlisle's network and suggesting his possible allies to Isabella, lunch, making back-up plans and creating strategies, a walk in the woods, reading, a jog around the lake, dinner, watching the evening news with Isabella through the internet, sleep. He'd never felt more useless, witnessing Isabella hunch in front of her computer, tapping the keyboard with speed only programmers could dream to achieve, making an effort to find Carlisle that he didn't have the skills to. She paused only when Edward brought her food, but even then, the conversation was scarce.

On Friday morning, Isabella rushed to the kitchen, eyes wide.

"I want to show you something."

He sat on the couch next to her, facing a black-and-white picture of a young girl in the countryside.

"You have a new desktop picture?"

"I would if it was mine."

Isabella opened the start menu. Edward leaned closer and read, _Jasper Harlow Whitlock_.

He blinked in disbelief.

"You know what's the strangest thing?" Isabella said, eyes sparkling. "Whitlock didn't fix the security breach I used a month ago. I spent three days trying to find security detail that didn't exist. Only today I realized I hadn't even tried the code I used previously. He _wanted_ me to get in his computer. He _expected_ it, and he wanted me to get in as easily as possible."

Heart beating faster, Edward locked eyes with Isabella. "Does that mean he's setting us a trap, or… he's decided to trust you?"

"I don't know, but…" Isabella opened a document on the desktop named ' _dp dm28 dn21n21p_ ' with a single line:

 _p.m28 gn18m6 n21dpm28_

"Is that supposed to mean something? How would you even know that file is for you?"

"The file name is my birthday! It means everything. First, it means he's in contact with Rosalie or he wouldn't know our code." Isabella stood up to find a piece of paper and a pen before sitting down again. "Second, he gave me a phone number. A _phone_ _number_."

She scribbled the illegible _p.m28 gn18m6 n21dpm28_ on a piece of paper, listed the first ten US States by date of admission to the Union, and explained how each first letter of a state gave a corresponding number, and how one could separate the numbers 3 (New Jersey, 3rd State) and 9 (New Hampshire, 9th) by adding the 18 (December 18) or 21 (June 21) to the _n_ , giving the respective _n18_ for number 3 and _n21_ for number 9.

Isabella let Edward decipher the code until, eventually, Whitlock's phone number read, _207-436-9127_.

"207 is Maine area code," Isabella said, so excited she could barely sit still. "I checked."

Isabella had started keeping her growing bangs away from her eyes with two clips and her hair was a mess, but seeing her explain something she loved, eyes passionate and glinting, he couldn't help but feel drawn to her. He grinned, squeezing her hand.

"You are a _genius_ ," he said, allowing himself to hope that they could crawl out of this mess. "I'm so proud of you."

She averted her eyes. "If I were a genius, I would've figured out that he didn't have additional security details for me to get through."

"Learn to take a compliment, aye?"

"Fine. I'm a _genius_."

"You don't know how much I wish I could help you with this."

Isabella looked at their joined hands.

"Your presence is enough."

Edward scoffed, but he was still smiling.

"Do you think we can trust Whitlock?" Isabella asked.

"I don't know. He did get the code from Rosalie, didn't he?"

"Yes, but she's never mentioned him."

"When did you last speak to her?"

"Two days ago."

"Maybe you should ask her about Whitlock before we use the phone number."

Isabella nodded.

They drove about an hour east to Patterson, North Carolina. Even if Rosalie claimed that Whitlock could be trusted, they wanted to make sure Whitlock hadn't lied through his teeth. If they were going to be tracked, they were not going to give away the location of their cabin. There was also the possibility that Rosalie was being threatened when she claimed Whitlock could be trusted, but Isabella and Rosalie had code words for that. If she was being forced to say anything, Isabella would know.

Isabella dialed one of Rosalie's numbers as they entered Patterson and drove through the area.

"Rosalie," she replied.

"Hi," Isabella answered. "How's the weather? Do you need your umbrella?"

 _Are we being listened to? Are you forced to say anything?_

"Clear as a baby's butt. No. Not yet."

"And Whitlock?"

"Will need yours."

Isabella let out a sigh. "And did you get my gift?"

"Yes, and I love it, you cheeky bastard."

Isabella smiled. "Please don't be reckless. Safety first."

"Speak for yourself, Mrs. Masen."

Rosalie's tone was playful, but the situation was anything but. Isabella disconnected the call, handing Edward a new burner phone. She locked eyes with him.

"Rosalie thinks Whitlock will be framed."

They switched places and drove by a Baptist Church as Edward dialed the number they'd found from Whitlock's computer.

"This is Maria speaking."

Edward glanced at Isabella, hesitating. "Good morning, this is Anthony. Is this your personal number?"

"No."

"Do you remember me?"

Maria paused, and a shuffle could be heard before a door clicked closed and wind disrupted her voice. "I do," she answered. "My father said to tell you that you should look in 21, 42, or… wait, m28-d-dsm6m28. What does that mean?"

Edward wrote down the code on tissue paper.

"Mr. Masen," Maria said, voice low and fearful. "What is going on? I know they're interrogating everyone connected to all those people who broke the law, but my father is a good man. You know that."

"I do."

"He said that your wife has an—umbrella, and that she would know what to do. What does that mean? Is everything okay?"

"It will take time. But until things are settled, be careful who you trust."

Knowing to look in Illinois, Washington State, and Canada (that was the result they got when googling July 1, 1867) wasn't overly specific, but it was a start. Edward listed all the people he'd met who were from those places and had a connection to Carlisle, and Isabella spent every waking hour programming. They didn't know yet if Whitlock could really be trusted, but they had to take their chances. Edward _wanted_ to trust him, but he knew that wanting to wouldn't be enough. They had to have evidence.

The weekend was overflowing with news of corruption, and the late night show hosts were having the time of their lives as they dissected the evidence, but over time, Edward started to feel desensitized to the news. He couldn't help it. No evening news passed without revelations of corruption.

On Monday, December 14, Edward found himself sitting across the room from Isabella with a book in his lap. He had yet to open it. Isabella was sitting on the floor, leaning against the couch, running fingers through her hair between intense tapping of the keyboard. She had shadows under her eyes. She'd gone to sleep after three every morning, and he woke up each time she joined him. He hadn't commented, but she seemed tired and he didn't want her to kill herself, doing this. Revealing all of this was important, no matter how redundant the 'breaking' news had become, but surely, her life was more important. She must've been guiding her army of cyber geniuses, pushing them and herself to perform quicker or better or whatever it was that cyber geniuses did. Edward didn't know, but it looked exhausting.

Their interaction this week had been business-like, but he'd caught himself eyeing her, wondering about how their relationship might've turned out if the circumstances were different. He held her hand at night, an innocent enough thing to do, yet caught himself wanting to pull her in his arms to sleep as well as they did before their wedding ceremony. He'd never snuggled. He wasn't the type. And his newfound attachment to Isabella could've been a result of the tight situation they were in, his relative loneliness and the fact that he was male and she was female, it could've been the tension and, to a degree, wishful thinking. Or, it could've been the fact that he was attracted to his wife and didn't want to acknowledge it.

Whatever the reason, he'd grown fond of her, and it showed. Not when he was awake, of course—he didn't let it. But when he woke up at five AM to find her arm thrown casually over his lower stomach, he took her hand in his but spent the next hour willing himself to calm down.

She was beautiful to him, her bleached hair with dark roots, her sleepy eyes in the morning, her intelligence and independence. One time, he woke up to find her leg between his, head resting on his chest, and instead of pushing her away like she'd told him to, he stared at the ceiling, holding her, wondering. He hated snuggling, didn't he? It was stifling, warm and became uncomfortable after a while, but not only did he not mind it with Isabella, he _liked_ it.

He was in trouble.

Edward set aside his book and crossed the room to sit on the carpet next to Isabella.

"It's not lunch yet," she said, not looking up. Her tapping on the keyboard didn't halt.

"I know."

For the next five minutes, he watched lines of code appear on the screen until she pressed enter and received seven warning messages and an error. Setting her laptop on the coffee table, she let out a breath. He stretched out his legs. Isabella curled into a ball and rested her cheek on top of her hand, watching him.

"I'm sorry I've been such bad company," Isabella said.

"It's not your purpose to keep me company."

"Still." She shrugged. "We're in a situation where I'm able to use my skills to the maximum, whereas you… you're most efficient in emergency situations. As long as nothing happens, you're going to be bored."

"Given the circumstances, let's hope I'm bored as often as possible."

She smiled. A tattoo of a small chess table with a single, red pawn was attached to her forearm. Edward touched it.

"Would you like to get some fresh air and go on a jog with me?"

She made a face. "That's the dullest exercise in the world."

"There's a lake you can jump in."

She snorted a laugh. "At, what, 30 degrees? Will I have to beat a hole in the ice first?"

"In a week, maybe. It hasn't frozen over yet."

He lifted himself on the couch and rested elbows on his knees. "Seriously, Isabella. I know that what you do is important, but you look exhausted. I think fresh air would do you some good. We don't have to jog. What do you say?"

A smile tugged at her lips. "Fine. Give me ten minutes to finish this."

"All right." He stood up. "But if you're not done in ten, I'll throw you out of the window myself."

She threw a piece of paper at him, but it landed by her feet. Edward raised his arms in mock horror. "Ohh!"

Isabella smiled.

"You have nine minutes left. I'll go and shoot a pig for lunch. You better be ready when I'm back."

"Shoot a pig?"

"It's a bad joke, Isabella. As my wife, you're obliged to look like my humor amuses you."

She faked a laugh.

"You suck at acting," he said, rounding the corner and disappearing from her view.

Wasn't that the story of her life.

"Edward?"

"Yes?"

"You don't have to cook for me."

"I know. I was just going to boil my socks for you."

She laughed. The situation surrounding them had been so tense for so long that Isabella had rarely, if ever, seen this fun side of him.

"Edward?"

"Tick-tock, Mrs. Masen. You're going to run out of minutes to fix that error message before we go out, look at deer poop and ponder on the philosophy of life."

Fifteen minutes later, after both had gotten dressed for the weather—25 degrees, no wind, mild fog—Edward guided them to a small trail on the left from the gravel road. It was silent. No birds sang, no cars rumbled, and no voices reached them. It was just them, in the middle of the forest, breaking the occasional branch, walking. They'd been at it for ten minutes before Edward broke the silence.

"Isabella?"

"Hmm?"

"How far along are you with your testimony?"

"I think I might have nine or ten pages written."

"How many do you think you'll write?"

"Who knows. I'm just making notes on people at this point. There's too much of it. I might just turn it into a file at one point to make sure it's there no matter what happens."

Edward jumped down a small slope and caught Isabella when she slipped on newly formed ice. He didn't let go. Instead, he squeezed her shoulders, smiling. Breathless in his proximity, she returned his smile and tugged at his scarf. They continued walking side-by-side.

"If you could do anything after this is over without any regard to the consequences of your choices, what would you do?"

Isabella admired the foggy valley in front of them.

"I'd like to finish my Master's," she replied, eyeing Edward. He didn't laugh.

"Admirable."

"But boring."

A smile tugged at his lips, but he didn't comment.

"How about you? What would you do? Is this your dream job?"

"I'm happy. I always thought I'd get as much field experience as I could before having a family, but I don't know. Time will tell."

"Would having a family hinder your work?"

"No, but…" Edward shrugged. "Once I have a wife and kids, I'd like to be there for them, you know? I don't want to be a ghost father."

His answer made her feel warm, not because she was ready to have a child herself but because there was something about a guy wanting to be _there_ for his wife and kid that made her feel unguarded. The more she got to know her husband, the more he caught her off guard with his character. She'd snatched herself the best of men. How would she let him go when the time came?

"Did you always want to become a marshal?"

"Yes and no. I thought about finding a way to become a homicide detective during my first few years at college. Idolized the thought, really. Maybe one day, when I feel like I've learned everything I possibly could from this job, I'll make that leap. But not yet."

The sound of wings flapping loudened and disappeared, but it was too foggy to make out any birds.

"You'll make some woman very happy one day."

Isabella pursed her lips in a smile and looked at her feet. She hadn't expected to _actually_ discuss their hopes and dreams when she'd accepted his offer to go for a walk, but she didn't mind, either. They had to know these things and much, much more, about each other. At one point, they had to make their versions match, but first, they could afford the luxury of getting to know each other. They did, after all, have two and a half months left to fill.

"And you? Do you want to have a family?" Edward asked.

"Yeah, I think so."

"Kids?"

"One day, yes. But not yet. I think maybe in five or so years, when I'm settled and confident and feel like I could put my heart and soul into another human being."

It wasn't like her to dream of having a family with a guy she barely knew, but the thought of Edward being ready while she was not made her deflate. Even if he shared her affection, they could only have a short relationship. He was likely to want kids sooner rather than later, and she wanted to finish school and experience life first. She wasn't ready, and she wouldn't fake being ready for any guy.

But when she glanced at him, she caught him looking at her with the strangest expression. His eyes felt intense, and yet, very, very soft. His gaze gave her goosebumps.

They reached the small lake, which was evaporating rapidly because the air temperature had decreased so quickly in the last 24 hours that the temperature of the water hadn't caught up yet. They admired the view in silence before turning right and starting to walk around the lake.

"Where were you born?" Edward asked.

"Are we playing twenty questions now?"

He scoffed, looking at the lake. "More like three thousand and seventeen, considering how much we need to know about each other to pull this off."

Feeling bold, she took his hand. He caught her eyes and squeezed it, saying nothing. She felt butterflies in her stomach.

"I was born in Nuevo Laredo, across the border from Texas in the state of Tamaulipas, Mexico. I spent my childhood there until I was five. You?"

"September 14, 1982, in Anderson Hospital in Maryville, Illinois. I lived there until I was three." He paused, smiling. "Were you going to tell me your birthday is in three days?"

Isabella cursed under her breath, scoffing. "You deciphered the name of Whitlock's file, didn't you?"

"I did," he replied. "So what do you want to do on Thursday?"

She sighed. "I have an unrealistic wish."

"Try me."

"I'd like to not program for the whole day. No coding or communicating, nothing. Can we just spend the day together?"

She felt too embarrassed to look at him, but he squeezed her hand, smiling. "A wish has never been so easy to fulfill. How is that unrealistic?"

"I should be programming. I'm really needed, not only to find Carlisle but other stuff, too. I shouldn't even sleep."

Edward stepped in front of her, placing his hands on her shoulders. "Come on, now. You've been programming every possible moment of every day. You take no weekends off. I know you love it, but you're on a highway to killing yourself with work. Seriously. One day, Isabella. Don't say you don't need it, because we both know that's a lie."

Not giving her the chance to reply, he asked, "Do you have any favorite cakes?"

"I thought you hated cakes."

"I do," he replied. "That doesn't make me incapable of making them."

"Well… I love Mexican chocolate flan."

"Never heard of it. Knowing you, it's filled with sugar and fat. If you find me a recipe, we'll go buy the ingredients on Wednesday. How's that?"

Isabella, overwhelmed with warmth and affection, threw her arms around his neck, engulfing him in a hug. Edward let out a laugh.

"I haven't even made anything yet."

"It's the thought that matters," she replied, kissing his cheek when she'd pulled back. He touched a tendril that had escaped her beanie. They kept walking.

"So, we have to be ready to answer every possible question, right?" Isabella asked, and when Edward nodded, she grinned. "So how many times a week are we having sex?"

Edward, a bit taken aback, chuckled.

"Three?" he asked, hopefully.

Isabella faked a gasp. "You would deprive me of sex four nights a week? Such cruelty!"

Edward paused to look at her, just for a second, and found her eyes glinting with humor.

"Routines develop in a marriage," he said, always the voice of reason.

"Not when you're married to me," Isabella joked, smiling. "I'm kidding. We can say three if you'd like. It's still an appallingly low number, isn't it? I mean, let's say I have a really good dream and want to have sex with you at six AM, that's one, right. Then, after we've come home from work and attempt to make dinner but feel too exhausted, I'll kiss you until you're tempted to take me on the counter, and that's two already. And when we're done cuddling on the couch watching reruns of _Mysteries at the Museum_ together, you'll look at me and think it's the sexiest thing in the world to share some interests with your wife and pick me up before we have sex against the wall. And that's just Monday. So either you buy me a bunch of batteries or I'll find a hot guy from France whose name is Pierre who knows exactly how to use his—"

Edward started tickling her.

"Edward!"

"You will _not_ cheat on me," he said, laughter in his voice. "Fine. I'll be more than happy to have sex with you 21 times a week. We'll be at it like rabbits. How quickly do you think you'll develop a UTI?"

Still convulsing with laughter, she said, "I'll have cranberry juice for breakfast, lunch, and dinner."

Edward picked her up, threw her over his shoulder, and started marching toward the lake. Isabella's beanie fell on the shore, and she started beating his back, laughing.

"Edward!"

"I'm afraid extreme measures are required unless you tell me that Pierre the French Guy is completely inadequate and you would never consider him."

"But he has such long, wonderful—"

Edward slipped. Isabella felt her shoulder fall at an awkward angle as they fell on sharp-edged pebbles. She groaned, moving her shoulder, and while it hurt, she was sure that nothing broke.

Edward rubbed his elbow as he sat up, shifting next to Isabella and cupping her face. He was all wide eyes and concern. "Are you okay?"

She smiled, shrugging. "I'm perfect. You?"

"Just a rash."

Edward was facing the lake while she faced away from it. Humor was gone from his eyes. "That was stupid. I'm sorry."

"Please don't apologize. I love it when you let yourself go like that. I wish you did it more often."

He rubbed her cheek with his thumb, not letting go, and a shy kind of smile covered his face. He leaned closer, and the vapor of their breath mixed. Her heart was beating wildly in her chest until he averted his eyes and stood up. She accepted his hand. He picked up her beanie and put it on her head, pulling it over her eyes. They scared away all potential wild animals with their laughter as they returned home.

For the next two days, they made their walk to the lake a routine part of their morning, and Isabella looked forward to their time together with ridiculous enthusiasm. They shared details of their childhood and discussed the people she was exposing, but Isabella also started to see more of this silly, playful side of Edward more often, and it felt unfair to her how charming she found him. He'd started to take her hand and hold it, not saying a word, and she found herself in danger of falling in love with her husband. He made her worries fade away in those few hours in the morning.

On Wednesday afternoon, Edward—with a heavy heart—left Isabella in the cabin to work on her programming as he went to town. She was trying to make up for her birthday. Edward felt uneasy, letting her stay at home while he went to the store, but he left her with his .40 caliber Glock (and her own gun), and took off to buy groceries and find ingredients for a chocolate flan.

Two and a half hours later, Edward tripped on his packed backpack next to the front door as he returned. Confused, he put down the groceries.

"Isabella?"

Her laptop clicked closed before she rounded the corner. He couldn't quite decipher her expression, but judging by her slumped shoulders and red eyes, something had happened. She had barely-contained intensity in her eyes, but kept her voice even.

"Don't take your shoes off."

Taken aback by her tone, he stared at her. "What?"

"Don't take them off. I put all your things in your backpack. One of my credit cards is in the front pocket with instructions on how to use it. It has $100,000, should last you a little while. I made you a couple of sandwiches, too, the healthy kind you like. You have to go."

Avoiding his eyes, she pressed her lips together. They trembled. He let go of his shoelaces and straightened up, observing her. Not even three hours ago had she made fun of his fake beard.

He took a step closer. "What happened?"

She blinked but her eyes still filled with tears. Feeling uneasy but having no intention to part from her, Edward took off his shoes, but it seemed to trigger something in her because she picked up one of them and pressed it against his stomach. He could smell alcohol on her breath. Brandy or whisky, something strong.

"You have to go."

"What's going on?"

" _Leave_."

"No."

She shoved his chest, throwing his shoes against the door. "Go!"

Edward shrugged off his jacket before taking her hands in his, decisive and strong as he stepped in her personal space, holding her gaze. Her eyes were unfocused. She swayed a little, but he held her hands between them, supporting her weight. Her face twisted and chin quivered, but she took a breath and stared at his chest.

"It's dangerous for you to be connected to me. I was too reckless to ask you to join me. I would never forgive myself if you were to—if you were to—"

Face contorting in pain, she took a shuddering breath. Edward locked the front door before he wrapped his arms around her. She struggled, pushing against his chest, but he didn't pull away.

"Tell me what happened," he whispered.

"Don't be so—so—! You have to—you have to—"

She was on the verge of sobbing, pushing him, but he didn't budge.

"I made a promise," he said, voice calm, breathing against her ear. "For better or for worse, Isabella. Don't make me break my promise because I have no intention to."

A single, silent convulsion revealed her sobbing, but she didn't make a sound. Edward cupped the back of her neck and held her against him. His voice was low.

"Tell me what happened."


	15. Winterbrook

…

 **Emma Matthews**  
by Anton M.

 **Chapter 15: Winterbrook**

…

"You don't even—like me."

"You're smarter than to believe that."

She stopped struggling. He wrapped her legs around him and walked in the bedroom with her. She hid her face in his neck even after he laid her down. He didn't let go. Her breath blew on his neck, wet from her tears. A breathy whimper escaped her before she started rocking with sobs, and Edward squeezed her tighter against him. He'd never seen her _let_ herself show her sorrow, and dread filled him. Someone was either tortured, captured, or killed, and the intensity of her reaction suggested it had happened to family or friends.

He removed the two hair clips that kept bangs away from her eyes, and covered them both with a blanket. In her haste to pack up his stuff, she'd neglected the fireplace, but it didn't matter now.

Rubbing her back, he waited, and it took her a while to be able to speak. She didn't seem drunk, not really, but she wasn't sober, either.

"Rosalie—" Isabella let out a quiet, wail-like sound. "She's—she's—they killed her."

He felt a shiver run down his spine.

"Are you sure?"

"Eric had to go and—identify her body. They thought it was a—I read the local news, one of those random murders from a car and—they shot her in the face. But, it _wasn't_ random, it _couldn't_ have been. She's too careful, she's too good—"

Isabella inhaled a shuddering breath. She didn't continue. He ran his fingers through her hair, thinking. Was it because of her ties to Isabella? Was it a warning? Had she found information she shouldn't have? Was it Jacob or Carlisle, or any of the government officials who'd been exposed by the evidence in the media? Had they followed her around, watching her, before taking her life?

"It's my fault," Isabella whispered. "I did this. If she'd never known me, if I'd never told her what I was doing, if I'd never let her help me… none of this would've happened. You're better off without me."

Trying to stifle her sobs, she pressed her mouth against the collar of his shirt and took deep, uneven breaths. He felt helpless, holding her, knowing that whatever he said would be trivial next to her pain.

"You didn't kill her," he muttered, holding his palm against the back of her neck. "It's not your fault."

"It _is_."

"Did she know how dangerous this was?"

"Of course she—"

"Did she help you voluntarily?"

"I would never—"

"Was she free to walk away at any moment?"

"Yes, but—"

"Did you pull the trigger?"

"No, but—"

"If you had died before her, would you have wanted her to blame herself?"

Isabella paused, raising her head to see his eyes. He felt overwhelmed with tenderness, facing her wide, red eyes and crumpled expression.

"You asked me not to blame myself," Edward explained, softly. "I didn't know her, but I would bet she felt the same."

He pushed away the bangs from her forehead, cupping her cheek, and she felt tremendous affection for the law-enforcement officer she'd married who knew exactly what to say. Her _husband_. He didn't fix anything, he couldn't, and he probably knew that. But he was trying to pave a road to understanding and acceptance. He was kind and caring and so incredibly patient, holding her.

Isabella touched his cheek with her fingertips and felt the scratchiness of a day's worth of stubble. Overwhelmed by his tenderness and encouraged by alcohol, she leaned down and pressed her lips against his. He opened his mouth, gasping, tugging, feeling her warmth and tasting the brandy on her lips. She felt pliant, soft and incredible, squirming in his arms, and he had to shift away from under her. He was playing a dangerous game.

"I'm sorry," she whispered, coloring as she sat up, hiding her face in her hands.

"I'm not upset." He locked eyes with her as he took her hands. "I think you should have some water. I'll be right back."

He returned with a glass of water and a sandwich.

"How much did you drink?"

"A glass," she replied. "But I haven't eaten much."

It was barely six PM. He turned on the bedside lamp, checking the house and cameras as she drank water and ate half a sandwich. She wrapped arms around her knees after she was done, running fingers through her hair, looking broken and embarrassed.

"Will you leave?" she asked, drawing patterns on the blanket. He sat on the bed, pulling off his socks.

"Do you want me to?"

"No," she whispered, raising her eyes to meet his. "I'm sorry I said that."

Edward turned off the lights and Isabella pulled away the blanket so that they could lie under and not on top of it. She took a breath, but before she could voice her request, Edward took off his jeans and lay next to her, pulling her in his arms. She sighed, brushing her lips against his neck and feeling his breath against her ear.

She slept erratically, waking every few hours, remembering. Edward often woke up with her and waited for her to fall asleep again. Some time after midnight, she brushed her knuckles against his spine, back and forth, feeling the warmth of his chest pressed against her damp cheek. He was fit but not too bulky, and she felt cherished when he held her. She couldn't see him, but she felt the moment his arms tightened around her.

"Did I wake you?" she whispered. Her voice was hoarse.

"No," he replied, brushing his lips against her hair. "I just want to make sure you're okay."

That single sentence made her eyes fill with tears, and in seconds, she was rocking against him with sobs. He didn't ask or push or express anything, really, and she couldn't comprehend his kindness and understanding. Somehow, in doing nothing, he recognized everything she didn't know how to ask for.

"Make this pain go away," she whispered, nuzzling his ear and pressing a kiss against his jaw. "Please."

Her kiss tingled and he cupped the back of her neck. Unsure as to where he got the willpower, he ran his fingers through her hair and whispered, "Not like this."

"Please." Hot tears wet the collar of his shirt, and his heart broke for her. He wanted to give in. He wanted to lose himself in her. He wanted to make her forget about the world and the people in it, a thousand times over.

"It would be just sex between two friends."

He pressed his lips together. "Sex is never just sex, Isabella."

"It can be," she replied, sliding her palm under his shirt, stroking his stomach in a way that drove him wild.

"It cannot." There was a strain in his voice.

"Please," she muttered, taking another sharp breath before letting out a sob. She took a few breaths to calm down before she scooted upward, toward his face. She leaned in for a kiss. She tugged at his lower lip, touching his jaw with her fingertips, and he felt like an electric wire had burned him, in the most intense, best way imaginable. He brushed his tongue against hers, closing his eyes. She hummed.

"Yes," she replied, breathless. "It's just sex, Edward. I can detach."

" _I_ can't."

She didn't have the energy to comprehend or interpret what he could've been saying, but in light of his earlier rejection of her, she assumed his unwillingness to arise from his lack of feelings (admitting he didn't get physical with women he didn't love) and not the presence of them. Yet, her gratitude ran deeper than shame or hurt. Having understood that he'd reciprocated her kisses out of compassion, Isabella hid her face in his neck. She hated to need him, to depend on him and rely on his expertise in things she knew little about. She hated that she was unable to drive him away when he so gently and completely understood what she needed. But while she might be grateful for his level-headedness tomorrow, she hated it tonight.

Isabella soon fell asleep, but Edward lay awake, trying not to let his thoughts linger on the feel of her lips and her steady breath against his neck. He had to stay rational.

How different would his reaction have been if his mother or sister had been the target? Would Edward have blamed her? Would he have stayed? Would he have ever forgiven himself for letting it happen?

No, it could never happen. He couldn't let it. If this situation got personal, and it had, he had to find a way to send his sister and mother to the other side of the world. Australia, maybe, or New Zealand. He had to make sure nobody could touch his family.

It was four AM when Edward gave up on sleep, brushed his teeth and unpacked his backpack. He put away their groceries. One of their cameras had caught a beaver on it, eating the bark of a tree, but catching wild animals on tape wasn't uncommon. Edward ate breakfast and showered before returning to the bedroom where Isabella was curled up on his side of the bed. Her eyes reflected the salt lamp on the floor as she blinked at him. Edward, torn between reason and affection, hesitated before he lifted the blanket and pulled her in his arms. Isabella started rubbing his chest with her fingertips.

"You're hairy."

It was a distracted comment in the midst of emotional turmoil, but the insignificance of the topic seemed to soothe her.

"Do you like your men waxed?"

"No. I don't know. My ex was a swimmer, and he had to…" Isabella grazed his chest with her nails to motion shaving. "Although I'm not sure if he had anything to shave, either way. I guess I'm just not used to chest hair."

He had no business feeling possessive, and yet he recognized his jealousy. "Does it bother you?"

"No." She stroked his chest, pressing a kiss on top of his heart, and he was glad she wasn't lying on top of him or she would've known exactly how much she was affecting him.

"It feels nice," she said. "Really nice."

He squeezed her, smiling against her hair.

"Is this awkward for you?"

He wanted to lie to stop this intensity between them, but he couldn't. Yet he couldn't reveal too much because if she knew how much he struggled with his feelings, she might've made another move and he didn't have the willpower to turn her away again. He didn't want their first time to be tainted by her regret and sadness.

"No."

"Good." She paused, and her voice was timid. "I'm sorry that I attacked you last night. I know you reacted out of sympathy, and I… appreciate that. But I shouldn't have put you in that position."

Edward turned, scooting lower, and stroked her cheek with his thumb. She felt herself blush under his gaze. Kissing her forehead, he lingered, and she felt goosebumps all over herself. Lost in his tenderness, she wrapped her arms around his neck and pressed herself against him.

"How will I ever let you go?" Her voice was a whisper. "If you leave, I will have nobody. Nobody to—miss me or love me or take care of me. Nobody to notice I'm gone."

Edward had no words to console her. Instead, he ran his fingers through her hair, replying, "I'm not going anywhere."

She relaxed against him, but her voice was low and hoarse.

"It was—Rosalie who named you Blue. She really liked my little color game with mom and thought it would be a good omen. It means hope."

His smile was faint as he squeezed her.

"The world has gained a lot from your birth," he replied. "Happy birthday."

She whimpered, knowing just as well as he did that there was nothing happy about this day. But she didn't take his words literally.

"Thank you."

Edward continued to distract Isabella with inconsequential topics, holding her when she struggled not to cry. The sun rose minutes after seven. Quiet tension surrounded them as both knew they needed to deal with practical matters, but he patiently kept her company as she ate breakfast. At around eight, Edward walked back and forth in front of the living room window, frowning as he quietly spoke to his mother, and Isabella sat on the couch, watching him. She drew a breath, forcing herself to keep herself together, and dialed Mike's burner phone.

"Hi, Sepiida," he answered, clearly awake. His voice was weary and tired. "How're you holding up?"

"I'm… It's… I guess as you'd expect." Isabella gulped. "What about you, guys?"

"Jessica is, she's really—I don't think she ever realized how close this could hit. How real it was going to be."

"But I—I explained. I thought I always emphasized how, how—bad it could get. Did you not believe me?"

"I'm not saying it's your fault," he replied, voice equally as quiet. "But Jessica has a huge family, and she… we…"

He trailed off, but he didn't have to continue for Isabella to understand what he meant. They wanted out.

"I'm… I'm real sorry," Mike said.

"I understand," Isabella replied, but her voice sounded hollow. She was about to lose her closest circle of friends over this, but she could not blame them. She had always, _always_ told them that they could walk away at any moment as long as they let her know. And he had.

"Jessica is heart-broken to leave like this, but… she's… it's a bit early to tell you, but, we're expecting."

Tears filled her eyes, but Isabella smiled through them, whispering, "Congrats."

"Thanks, we're real… it's a lot, you know? The timing is shit. It's your birthday. Try to… keep yourself alive, okay? I'm sorry it has to be this way."

"It's okay," Isabella replied, eyeing Edward as he crossed the room, sitting on the coffee table in front of her. He cupped her cheek.

'You okay?' he mouthed. Isabella nodded, kissing his palm. Her tears didn't fall.

"You don't know how grateful I am for your help," Isabella said.

"Please don't hate us for abandoning you like this."

"I would never. I'm happy for you."

"We're going to leave the 50 until things settle. Jessica sends her love."

"Take care and be careful. I'll never forget everything you've done for me."

Edward sent her a questioning glance once she'd disconnected her phone, but he was still talking to his mother, and so he squeezed her hand and went back to the window. Isabella, feeling a strange mixture of despair, loneliness and love for her friends, dialed another number.

"Hello."

"Hi, Eric."

He took a breath. "Did you speak to Jessica and Mike?"

"I did."

"Did they tell you that they want out?"

"They did," she said, pausing. "Do you share the sentiment?"

Her lips quivered, and she hated every moment of it. She held her breath, feeling the loneliness and pressure of doing everything alone, and yet she couldn't blame them for quitting. It was all too fucked up.

"No." Eric released a breath. "I'm with you all the way, just like we promised that night two years ago."

She recognized the bitterness in his tone.

"Are you sure?"

"I have nothing to lose," he replied.

"Please don't blame them. They're doing what's best for them. I always said you should."

"I'll get over it," Eric replied. "Have you deleted everything from Rosalie's computers?"

"I left my computer to it for the night. They're so clean they'll ask for the default settings to be specified."

"Only you, Sepiida. Did you get everything you needed? We can split her share of the work."

"You'd do that?"

"Of course. You're probably killing yourself already. Is Blue behaving himself?"

Isabella's eyes locked with Edward's.

"He's been wonderful."

"Good. Make sure you watch the news today. They've found some hotels you've stayed in. Make sure they're not too close."

Having finished talking to the few friends she had left, Isabella pulled every string she had to help Edward arrange plane tickets for his mother, sister, and Tyler, under false identities. It took Edward two and a half hours to convince his family of the severity of the situation, but everything ran smoothly once he had succeeded.

After a morning filled with phone calls, Edward slumped next to Isabella, and she rested her head against his arm, taking his hand between hers.

"Thank you for not leaving even when I was pushing you to."

He looked at his hand in her lap. "I don't think I could even if I wanted to, at this point."

Isabella caught his gaze, smiling timidly. Edward noticed the lines of code that were running across her computer screen, but it seemed to need no input from her and he didn't ask what it meant.

She helped him to make Mexican chocolate flan. It turned out sufficiently well considering the creative liberty he'd taken with the ingredients. He lit candles, turned on some music, and set the coffee table in the living room. Their lunch was quiet and intimate. Isabella's knees were leaning against his thighs as she tried her best to convince Edward to eat his flan, but he made a face even at the one bite he took. After they'd eaten, Edward took her hand, getting up.

"Dance with me."

"I'm a below average dancer."

"I don't care."

Smiling, Edward pulled her to the open space on the carpet. He wrapped his arms around her, and she lifted hers to put around his neck. She rested her cheek against his chest. His open palms rubbed patterns against her spine, causing goosebumps, and she sighed against his chest, playing with his hair. His sweater smelled of aftershave, or maybe that was just him, and Isabella's feelings threatened to overwhelm her.

He rested his chin on top of her head. "How are you holding up?"

How could he expect her not to fall for him when he was being so kind to her?

"I feel… it's hard to describe. Lost. Angry. Guilty, both because of what knowing me did to her but also how quickly I will have to learn to let go. I don't think I'll ever be able to rid myself of the guilt I feel."

He brushed his lips against her hair, squeezing her tighter against him.

"Edward?"

He hummed.

"Will you continue to be my friend if we make it and divorce in two years? Not publicly, of course. Would you agree to meet me once in a couple of years to spend a day together?"

He withdrew, pushing back her hair to see her eyes. Her lips trembled. "And if I die, will you visit my tombstone every once in a while? Not often. But maybe once in a decade? I would really like the idea that I will have had an impact on someone strong enough to at least remember me with fondness."

Edward wiped her cheeks, locking eyes with her before he pressed a kiss on her forehead and wrapped his arms around her neck. Her hands slid under his shirt.

"I promise." His breath ghosted against her ear. "If I fail… Your tombstone will never cease to have flowers on it."

It was the first time he'd admitted they could fail, and whether it was the possibility that he might live a wholesome life with another woman or the simple emotion of self-pity, she did not want to ponder on. But he drew back enough to brush his lips against her hair.

"But if I fail, it is likelier that we will be together in the graveyard. Maybe they will agree to make a tunnel between our coffins so that we could forever be holding hands."

Isabella swallowed thickly, eyes brimming with tears. "I'd like that."

He'd like it more if it didn't happen for another sixty years.

Edward cleared his throat. "Speaking of holding hands, I got you something." He crouched next to the coffee table and held out two fluffy penguins, holding hands. If Isabella weren't already crying, she would've started now.

"I'm not much of a tailor, so I stapled their hands together. I hope it doesn't ruin the idea."

Without taking the penguins from Edward, Isabella threw her arms around his neck and squeezed herself flush against him, hiding her wet face (and snotty nose) in his neck. Edward smiled, gently.

"It's just a couple of penguins."

"Will you marry me?" she asked with a smile in her voice in spite of her tears.

"I'm afraid I'm already taken, Mrs. Masen."

"Pity," she replied. "You would've made the most wonderful husband."

He smiled in her hair. They spent a few hours in the living room, hugging and swaying to the music but not doing much else. Isabella, overwhelmed and scared by the intensity of affection she felt for him, didn't dare to ruin the evening with her feelings, and mostly kept silent. When pain and guilt filled her as she thought of Rosalie, Edward soothed her with a few well-chosen words and his proximity. She ingrained the evening in her memory, and as she wrapped his T-shirt in a ball in her hand, inhaling his scent and enjoying his warmth, it became clear to her that she wasn't in danger of falling in love with her husband.

She already had.

She let go of his shirt, stroking his back instead, and kept her realization to herself. The day had been an emotional roller coaster, and she didn't want him to feel like he had to reciprocate because of how vulnerable she was. She wanted to earn and deserve his love, if she ever had the luck to receive it. But for now, she was perfectly content to hold him in her arms and be held in return.

In spite of her feelings and the evening they spent together, her progress in accepting Rosalie's death was slow. She didn't sleep well, and even though Edward couldn't change that, she appreciated being held in his arms more than she knew how to express. She sent flowers to Rosalie's funeral, and, after finding out that Rosalie's parents had trouble paying off their mortgage, transferred the amount needed to Rosalie's account. They would inherit it. Giving them money did nothing to her self-blame. Her parents would never forgive her, regardless, and she didn't expect them to. It just felt like the right thing to do. As always, she made sure the money could not be tracked back to her.

A week ago, they'd discussed the possibility of heading to Washington State to crash a Christmas party of _G. Koch Inc._ , the CEO of which, Tomas Williamson, strongly associated with Marion Pasquier, the Director of the FBI. She could have done a lot by being there, but considering the recent events, Edward convinced her to postpone the risk and instead pay a visit to a charity event a month later in San Fransisco. Both of them were scheduled to attend it. Struggling to make peace with Rosalie's absence, Isabella agreed, and focused on finding Carlisle and guiding Eric. Like her, he had more on his plate than he'd ever had, and she made sure he knew he could walk away at any moment. So far, he had refused.

The media had started to reveal bits and pieces of their chosen path, but they covered too many rumored—false—hotels to reconstruct any portion of their travels. They had footage of them in Park Lane Suits and Inn in Portland, Oregon, the first hotel they chose to stay in on December 6, and they'd also released a video of Isabella and Edward in their wedding night hotel Tenbrook Suits and Inn in Cheyenne, Wyoming, but Isabella and Edward had never stepped into the other three hotels they were claimed to have visited. Their new identities involved nose prosthetics and extensive make-up, and so far, they dared to be hopeful of their success.

They spent Christmas Day skating on the lake after Edward found two pairs of skates on the attic. He kept skating backwards in front of her, holding her hands, guiding her. New to skating, she stumbled a lot, but he either caught her or chose to fall with her. He even managed to make her laugh once, and made sure she knew how much he appreciated it by pressing a kiss on her flushed cheeks. She was making progress, if slowly.

They lost their internet on Monday, December 28, and after finding the cause, were forced to choose a larger city—Charlotte, North Carolina—to find a proper hardware store. It was two and a half hours away. The day passed smoothly and nobody seemed to follow them, and Isabella chose I-85 and Route 321 to return to their cabin. Edward's eyes were on the map but he wasn't reading it. Isabella watched the passing scenery.

"What did Vicente Hernandez say in Spanish the day we got married?" Edward asked.

She stifled a smile. "He said you had the prettiest eyes he'd ever seen."

"What? No."

"Yeah, you're right. Though your eyes are, admittedly, very nice." Isabella looked at him. "He said that my father would've been proud of my choice."

He paused, observing her. "Do you agree?"

"I do. You might hate him, but he would've liked you."

"I don't hate him."

"Really?"

"No, you've…" Edward hesitated. "I think I'm starting to understand where you're coming from. I'm not a fan of the man, of course, but… I'm starting to see how complicated this is for you."

Isabella felt like she could kiss him for his perspective.

"Why do you think he'd like me?"

"You're a man of the law and you take care of me," she replied, shrugging. "He would've liked you more if you loved me, but… what can you do?"

She missed the sharpness of his gaze as she purposefully kept her eyes on the road. She pulled up in front of a gas station near Maiden, North Carolina, and they bought some gas and water. The sun had set. Edward observed people with particular interest because he'd been here before, once. They waited in line behind a sulking teenage boy attempting to buy alcohol, a tired man with two kids, and a well-dressed woman in her fifties. The latter rushed after them after they'd left the store.

"Excuse me, sir! You forgot your credit card!"

Edward turned, alert. Glancing in Isabella's direction, he saw her face grow pale. She tugged his sleeve, backing away.

"Winterbrook," she whispered.

He took out his gun, but the woman was ready with her own and pulled the trigger first. Edward barely caught Isabella before shooting the woman on the forehead. Quick and frantic, he carried Isabella to their car and lay her on the backseat.

"Talk to me."

He couldn't recognize his voice, but he'd never had an emergency kit open so quickly. With an effort, her eyes focused on him. He cut off her sleeve, pressing against her wound, and applied a pressure bandage against her shoulder. His hands were soaked in blood in seconds.

"Talk to me, baby. Anything."

The strangest combination of a grimace and a smile covered her face.

"It feels…" Her eyes, unfocused, looked away. "You didn't tell me—it would feel…"

He wrapped a bandage around her shoulder as tightly and quickly as he could before shutting the door and jumping in the front seat. He took off, finding a smaller street. Who was the woman? How had she recognized Isabella?

Not even two minutes had passed, and Edward knew the cops would be on his trail, but he didn't have time to care. Isabella needed immediate medical attention and yet taking her to a hospital might be suicide for both of them. Was there another alternative? He knew quite a few people in North Carolina, but how many could he trust?

Having made up his mind, he caught Isabella's hand and continued at normal speed.

"You forgot to tell me what it feels like, baby. Tell me."

She groaned, whispering his name, and Edward turned to the single, houseless Blue Creek Road before it ended with a wide brick house with a single floor. Carefully and methodically, he picked Isabella up and walked up the steps to the front door. He held his finger on the trigger, but his gun wasn't cocked, yet. He had met Victoria Caldwell once, four or five years ago, and she was not on their list of people to trust. But he knew she would remember him, and he would use every measure necessary to keep Isabella alive.

He felt her blood soak his sweater as he rang the doorbell. A ginger-haired woman held a glass of coke in her hand when she opened the door. She gaped, blinking.

"My wife needs your help. You will either testify that I held you at gunpoint to force you to help her, or I can do just that so your words would reflect the truth."


	16. Calm Before the Storm

…

 **Emma Matthews**  
by Anton M.

 **Chapter 16: Calm Before the Storm  
**

…

" _The victim has been identified as Rhonda Burke, a third-in-command of the infamous_ _El Camale_ _ón cartel. She was scheduled to stand trial six months ago on charges of forced labor, bribery, and dissemination of heroin, marihuana and other illicit drugs. The forensics team involved in the case has revealed that the homicide was most likely self-defense. DNA from the crime scene has officially been identified as belonging to Mrs. Isabella Swan and the .40 caliber bullet that that killed Rhonda Burke could belong to a .40 Glock that Marshal Edward Masen is licensed to use. The incident was not caught on tape. No hospital in Maiden or any nearby area has records of a gun-shot wound regarding a woman of Mrs. Swan's age, weight and height, and experts believe she could have died of blood loss. The current whereabouts of both Marshal Masen and his wife are unknown, but—"_

A knock echoed in the living room, and Victoria Caldwell, clad in yoga pants and a T-shirt, walked to the door. A german shepherd sniffed the doormat next to an overweight man in a police uniform.

"Good evening, Miss Caldwell. I'm sure that given your report and connection to Marshal Masen, you're unsurprised by my visit."

"It's New Year's Eve."

"I'm well aware."

"You went through my house two days ago. Do you not trust me?"

"Let's not be rash, here. Marshal Masen and Isabella Swan were here, and you are a nurse. I am only here to check on your words."

"I am a nurse _resident_. "

"Same difference."

"Do you have a warrant?"

"No." The man's eyes narrowed. "But I have brought a friend today and, given your innocence, I was counting on your cooperation. It will only take me a few hours to obtain one. Do you want me to do it?"

"I don't appreciate your distrust, but I have nothing to hide. Come on in."

The K-9 sniffed every corner of the basement and the attic with no remarkable results, proving Victoria Caldwell's words when she had claimed not to have let Marshal Masen and Isabella Swan in. Officer John Sandoval apologized as Victoria accompanied him to the front door. The officer stopped at the doorway, brow furrowed.

"And you're sure you didn't bring them somewhere else to help them there?"

"Why would I do that and yet report their presence?"

"Because you knew the man, once. You might harbor kind feelings for him. He was, after all, your sister's boyfriend for many years."

"You're only providing reasons why I would not agree to let them in my house, sir."

The man tipped his hat. "Indeed, ma'am. Thank you for your cooperation. Let us know immediately if they contact you again."

"Of course, sir."

Victoria Caldwell leaned against the closed door, exhaling.

…

Edward, in his panic, had forgotten that he was wearing a nose prosthetic, a wig, and a beard. Victoria squinted, eyes wide in alarm but head tilted as if to listen to his voice. It was Isabella's falling wig that made her eyes snap on Edward's as she, finally, recognized the two people at her door.

"No."

Her denial felt more of a whisper of disbelief than a refusal to help, but Edward didn't have time to deal with her shock. His fingers tightened on his gun, but he didn't raise it.

"Do you need further incentive?"

Victoria stared at Isabella in Edward's lap for only a few seconds, and yet time had never seemed to drag so much. Placing her glass on the shelf, Victoria made up her mind as she pulled on a jacket and grabbed keys to her car.

" _Victoria_ …" he warned.

"Not here."

Without another word, she stepped out of her house and checked on the pressure bandage on Isabella's shoulder. Satisfied with Edward's work, she motioned for him to follow her. Edward, reluctant but much too worried to refuse, left their truck behind Victoria's house before he took their backpacks and got in the driver's seat of Victoria's car. Victoria tended to his wife on the backseat while Edward cursed the traffic on Route 321. Following Victoria's guidance, he drove them through Mountain View but turned left before they could intersect with I-40. She told him to stop the car behind a veterinary clinic.

It was a modest two-floor building with a back entrance and a private apartment on the second floor. Edward watched in silence as Victoria unrolled a thick plastic-like material in the middle of a bed and, having disinfected it, motioned for Edward to lay Isabella on top of it. Tenderly, he released her.

"It's healthier for us both if we stop pretending that you'll shoot me."

Edward, realizing that he was shaking, put down his gun and pressed his open palm against his eyes. The terror he felt was much too intense to give voice to any of it.

"I'm not a surgeon," Victoria said.

"You're a nurse."

"Resident."

"You know anatomy."

"I've witnessed four surgeries, and only once as an assistant. She might die."

"Isn't it likelier to happen if we don't do anything?"

Victoria examined Isabella and the stark red pressure bandage on her shoulder. She took off her jacket and straightened. Edward, recognizing the decision, stood up.

"What do you need me to do?"

They were fast and efficient, collecting everything Victoria might need from the first floor. Ten minutes later, Edward found himself sitting on a stool, assisting an operation he had no will to see. Minutes passed and the silence was occasionally filled by a word or two. Minutes turned into hours. Edward kept trying to unclench his jaw only to find himself grinding teeth. In an act of thoughtfulness or stupidity, he wasn't sure, he held Isabella's hand through the operation and observed the way professionals tied wounds to be able to imitate it. Victoria drew a blood sample and centrifuged it. They pulled off their gloves and washed their hands. It was minutes to midnight.

"I'll ask another nurse to draw a blood sample from me in the morning to switch them and monitor her CRP and electrolytes for a few days."

Edward had barely known Victoria five years ago, but she'd surpassed all his expectations. He'd expected to hold a gun as Isabella lay on the kitchen table, with strong alcohol as the only disinfectant. He hadn't dared to hope for an empty clinic, if a veterinary one.

They walked back in the bedroom, switching off the lights despite the fact that its windows couldn't be seen from the street. Remembering his strange appearance, Edward pulled off his disguise. He was sweaty and exhausted.

"Do you think she'll make it?"

"She'll have a few rough days ahead, but she's fit and young." Victoria sat on the stool Edward had occupied, rolling Isabella's IV bag closer to the bed. "But I'm not a surgeon. I might've caused permanent nerve damage in her left arm. Time will tell."

Edward pressed his lips together. "When should we leave?"

"The couple who owns this place is in Florida with their family until Saturday. I have the keys to feed their cat."

Edward looked around. "Where's the cat, then?"

"Probably on a shelf in the corridor. He's shy of people. Make sure he doesn't come close to your wife."

Nodding, Edward leaned against a table, observing Victoria in the dim room. She was slightly corpulent, more so than he remembered, but not unattractive. Her hair was frizzy and short, nose covered with freckles, and she had a tooth decoration. He'd spent one evening with Kate's family during Christmas, maybe five years ago, and debated with Kate's older sister most of the night. Victoria was cynical of law and politics, and Edward, who had studied criminal law, met her with his youthful idealism. They'd had a discussion passionate enough to alarm the family, but they had ended the argument with no wounded feelings on either side. Later, before the end of his relationship with Kate, in his brief phone conversations with Victoria, she'd always struck him as a woman remarkably easy to understand. She was a big contrast to her sister, who loved to speak in circles.

Edward had thought of putting Victoria on their list of people to trust, but decided that the connection to his personal life was too strong. Nevertheless, Victoria Caldwell was just as he'd remembered her: honest, decisive, and, clearly—although she followed the law—still cynical of it, or she wouldn't have helped them so easily.

"You've changed," Victoria said, standing up and leaning against the desk beside him. She crossed her arms, and they both looked at Isabella. "I've followed the news. Your face, Isabella's face, your boss, her brother, corruption, corruption, corruption. What is going on?"

Edward, exhausted, hungry, and worried, found himself tempted to explain, but his newfound cynicism and mistrust prevented him.

"Why are you helping me?" he asked.

"Because." Victoria shrugged. "Judging by the news, you're in a shit hole. And I always liked you, Anthony. You would've made a good brother-in-law."

"Victoria…"

"I know, I know. Burnt bridges and all that. Can I tell Kate I've seen you?"

"No."

"You don't trust her?"

"It's not a matter of trust. The fewer people are involved in this mess, the better."

She held his gaze. "Okay."

"Is she okay with news of my marriage?"

"She was shocked. Bitter, too, as any woman would be when discovering their ex looks hotter than ever and got married to a beautiful woman ten years younger than her after a month of knowing the woman."

Edward clenched his jaw, uncomfortable with the view the world had of him, but he'd made his choice. If that's what the world saw, he didn't have the luxury of caring.

"She'll come around," Victoria said. "Seeing you like that with Isabella would hurt her, but I still like to think she'd want you to be happy in the end."

" _Like that_? Like what?"

"You know. All forehead kisses and mad concern and PDA she never convinced you to show."

Edward shifted, not having realized how much he was displaying his concern and fondness for Isabella. But he didn't comment, and Victoria looked at him with a good-natured smile.

"It's better if you go to the police and tell them I forced you to drive us to Charlotte. Do you know a street that's mostly empty at this time of night?"

"More than a few."

"Good. They'll examine our truck, but I don't care about that. If, however, someone witnessed you driving here tonight, tell them I held you at gunpoint and threatened to kill… do you have a girlfriend at the moment?"

Victoria scoffed, smiling. "Her name is Louisa. She's a substance abuse and behavioral disorder counselor."

"That's a mouthful," Edward said with a slight smile. "If it's revealed that you helped us, you should look distressed, tear up if you can, and tell them I held you at gunpoint every step of the way and threatened to kill Louisa if you tell a soul. Got that?"

She blinked, unused to seeing Marshal Masen, a man her sister had always insisted was the most lawful citizen she'd ever seen, talk so casually about lying to the police. But she gave him a nod, contemplating.

"I still want to know what happened to cause this…"

She motioned in his general direction as if to imply the change he'd gone through, and Edward stared at Isabella for a minute or two as he decided how much he could tell, or how much he could actually trust her. Victoria's curiosity, if mildly expressed, was undeniable, and Edward found himself exhausted and worried enough to throw caution to the wind and share some details. He didn't mention places or hotel rooms, he didn't disclose the true reason behind their marriage, and he said nothing of their future plans. But in spite of all the information he didn't reveal, they discussed the situation for two hours, and he was relieved to be able to share the burden with a third party, if only a little of it.

Victoria warned Edward that the neighbors had a spare key to the clinic. She hadn't heard of them using it much—or she wouldn't have been the one to feed the cat—but he had to be warned of the possibility. Victoria promised to bring food in the evening if everything went smoothly (they were to survive on frozen fast food until she returned), and Edward reminded her to make sure her house had no recording devices after the police examined it. They might still suspect her.

Edward accompanied her to the back door, taking the key from her, but he stopped her just after she'd said her goodbyes. He still couldn't be sure of her trustworthiness. For all he knew, she might've headed straight to the police and described everything that had happened, but he had to take the risk. She _had_ helped them.

"Thank you."

Victoria gave him a rueful smile. "I find it quite surprising that you came to me. I hope I did more good than harm. Take care of her tonight."

"I will."

"I'll see you tomorrow if all goes well. Be careful."

"You, too."

He locked the door. Victoria didn't switch on the lights of her car at first. It was a quiet car, and the route to the road couldn't be seen by the neighbors. With a bit of luck, they might get away with this.

It was 02:13 AM when Edward found an extra blanket from the closet, took off his clothes, and covered himself and Isabella with it. He checked her pulse before holding her hand to his lips. He was exhausted and anxious, yet filled with relief. However badly all of this could turn out because of all the variables he couldn't control, he was happy that Victoria had taken care of Isabella.

Victoria drove east on I-40 and south on NC 16 before she re-entered Maiden on East Maiden Road as if arriving from Charlotte. She was not a good liar, but she went through all the imagined details of her forced drive to Charlotte and talked to the two officers at the Maiden Police Department. They came to examine the truck that had belonged to Edward and Isabella, and alerted the Charlotte Police Department of the presence of the two. A forensics team arrived from Charlotte in the morning minutes before Victoria headed to work.

Nobody suspected anything amiss in her report, yet, but it was probably a matter of time.

In response to the high CRP levels in the blood that belonged to Isabella, Victoria made up symptoms of nephritis and would've been given a sick leave if she hadn't insisted on staying. She didn't have a replacement and was, therefore, kept on the job and monitored closely for the following three days, giving Victoria the perfect opportunity to keep an eye on Isabella's inflammation levels. But, like the young, healthy woman she was, Isabella's CRP decreased nicely to the point where Victoria was forced to admit that a journey was not impossible on New Year's Eve. Edward had planned and hoped to take off the night when tipsy and celebrating crowds would be too distracted to pay attention to a single car exiting the town.

When Victoria entered the clinic after letting the K-9 sniff her house on New Year's Eve, she found two backpacks next to the front door. Isabella was sitting on the edge of the bed, talking to Edward as he finished wiping all surfaces clean of his fingerprints. He wore gloves. Noticing Victoria in the room, Isabella stopped speaking. So far, she'd always slept through Victoria's visits.

Because Isabella was still attached to the IV saline drip, Victoria walked over to her to shake her hand. Isabella was pale and she'd lost weight. Her movements were weak and eyes weary.

"Edward speaks very highly of you, Victoria. I don't know how to thank you."

Judging by her girlish features and Edward's past relationship with her sister Kate, Victoria had expected a demure, smug girl who was aware of having a man's undivided attention and prepared to take advantage of it. But she saw that her prejudice was unfair. Isabella, intelligent and willful, didn't play on learned helplessness or her vulnerable situation. As Victoria removed Isabella's intravenous catheter, she observed the couple. Their interaction didn't feel like a superior-inferior relationship the way media had labeled it, neither did it look like Isabella had scandalously seduced the man. Edward treated Isabella like an equal, asking for her opinion on the plans he'd made, and Isabella gave thoughtful input (even if she was slow and confused in expressing it). Isabella, in turn, talked without mentioning names or places in Victoria's presence, and Edward responded in kind. Victoria thought they were undeserving of the speculation in the media. They treated each other as equals.

Edward offered his arm to Isabella to help her stand once they were disguised.

"You said it was a medium-bore handgun. Anything less than .38 ain't gonna kill me," Isabella joked. "I'm fine."

Still, she needed his help. Victoria looked away when Edward kissed her temple. She felt like she was prying, and she'd never felt like intruding on a private moment when her sister was with Edward.

After the cat was fed and Edward had made sure no sign of them was left behind, Victoria drove them to Morganton, North Carolina, and stopped the car in a parking lot where a beige sedan waited for them, brought there by one of the nine people they trusted, Embry Call. He had made the trip from Cincinnati, Ohio. He didn't stay.

Isabella held out a hand to Victoria. "I know you had every reason not to help us. Thank you for doing it in spite of your sister and regard to your own safety."

"Thank you for trusting me."

The women looked at Edward who was taking their backpacks from the back of the car.

"I hope you know what a good man you've caught."

"I do," Isabella replied, smiling although she could barely stand. She felt shy in her admission, and curious about Kate, but it wasn't the time or the place to satisfy her curiosity. "I really do."

Edward and Isabella drove west. It was a semi-cloudy night, and the sight of the old moon was interrupted by snowing. Edward had let go of Isabella's hand once she'd fallen asleep because the roads he chose were mountainous and tricky, but he stopped the car on a mountainside at 11:47 PM. He could see sparse fireworks above a small town in the distance. They'd passed Topton, but they hadn't made it to Cleveland, Tennessee, yet.

Edward was relieved to hear that the woman he'd killed was a criminal. He didn't take a life when he could prevent it, but the evening had been too dark to be confident that he would hit her hand, and the stakes were too high for him to risk Isabella's life. If he missed, the woman might've shot Isabella twice. He couldn't risk that.

He'd considered and reconsidered the fact that he'd used his own licensed gun, but if they survived and their real route and actions were revealed, he knew he wouldn't deny the incident. Using a different gun wouldn't change that. He was likely to be charged with manslaughter, but even without a video recording, the evidence was on his side. Isabella had been shot, they knew that. It was self-defense. If he had tried to hide his presence by using another gun only to have his involvement proven later, his trustworthiness would've been in question. All risks considered, his own gun felt like the right choice.

Edward hadn't discussed much with Isabella except for the essential. He was far too concerned to ask her to help him with planning, and Isabella was far too filled with painkillers to offer any.

She was sleeping, facing him, her mouth slightly agape. Edward squeezed her right hand. The few months they'd known each other had been crazy, filled with careful planning and snap decisions, fake identities and hotel rooms. He'd changed from a man loyal to the law to one who doubted its execution but not its intention. He had seen Isabella reveal his mentor and father figure as, maybe, the most vile man he'd ever known. He'd argued and discussed plans with Isabella, and through it all, he grew attached to her. More so than he was ready to acknowledge.

He got _married_.

The perspective of media, in spite of its irrelevance, bothered him. He was not a man who kept switching his girlfriend to a younger version every few years. Ideally, he would've found someone closer to his own age, closer in experience, perspective, and hope for the future. Yet, for four years, he'd been together with Kate (who was his age), and they'd still wanted different things. She'd wanted marriage but not kids, and he wanted kids without caring about marriage. He was fortunate to have discovered her reluctance to have kids before he'd agreed to get married, and he was far from blaming her for her choice, but it felt like a lot of wasted years. He wished he'd known so that both of them could've found people with similar desires sooner.

And now he'd married Isabella, a woman ten years his junior, who had her whole life ahead of her. Her intelligence was daunting and she was beautiful, but he'd never met anyone with a more complicated life. Life had taught her to be alone. Lack of opportunity and the nature of her family had prevented her from making many friends, and yet in these few months, she'd trusted him with her life, trust and friendship. Was it fair of him to keep himself at a distance because getting involved would be too complicated? It was _already_ complicated, watching her get shot in front of him proved that to him. Feigning indifference or confusing her with his on-and-off behavior wasn't going to change the fact that, if something did happen, he was going to be worried sick. Faking nonchalance wasn't going to change that.

And if she was right, and he couldn't prevent them from dying, why keep himself from her? She was lonely, and he was pretending he wasn't sick with longing for something more substantial than friendship. Was it fair of him to keep her at a distance because he was concerned with doing the right thing? She had a colorful life experience and a different perspective, but she'd taught him a lot and he hoped she'd learned something from him in return. She'd admitted that she wanted kids later, five or ten years down the road, but the way she understood the work and love kids required floored him. It would be later than he would've preferred, but he couldn't blame her for it. She was young.

The problem was, the moment he gave her the green light, it was all or nothing, and it took hell of a lot of trust for them both to have faith in the other to keep the facade if their relationship failed. Because if it did, they'd have to put more effort into preparing for testimonies, into making their relationship believable every single time they stepped out the door to convince anyone. A trial-and-error could cost them their freedom. He couldn't take that lightly.

And yet when they worked together, seamless as a team, arguing, laughing and teasing each other, there was potential between them he hadn't felt with anyone. It was intense, it was fast, and it felt incredible. However young she was compared to him, they could be amazing together, and pretending indifference wasn't going to make him feel any better if anything happened. He already cared too much.

When the clock struck twelve, Edward leaned over and pressed a kiss on Isabella's lips, smiling when she opened her eyes. He held her jaw in his hand.

"Happy New Year, Isabella."

Isabella, tired and in pain, blinked at him before she took his hand and squeezed it. Edward turned on the engine, and they drove through Tennessee and Arkansas in the aftermath of New Year's Eve parties. Isabella slept most of the way.

It was a long drive, and Edward spent it wondering who could've sold them out. They'd now been discovered twice in their disguise. They'd been too careful for the appearances of Rhonda Burke and the people who chased after them in Colorado to have been coincidental. Someone was leaking information. But who? Seth? Eric? Whitlock? Mike and Jessica? Tyler? His family, unlikely and unpleasant as the possibility seemed? They were now safely in perhaps the most picturesque city he'd ever googled, Queenstown, New Zealand. How could he even consider the possibility? Yet, how could he not? But whoever it was knew just enough to cause damage but not enough to barge in while they were sleeping.

It would be wise to refrain from revealing anything to anyone, no matter how strong their imagined trust, until they knew who'd betrayed them. They could buy even more burner phones and use each one once, but would it help? What if Isabella had made a mistake in her encryption? What if another hacker had taken it upon his or herself to expose her? What if the intentions were harmless but the information had gotten in the wrong hands? What if...

He needed to discuss the issue with Isabella. They were, after all, a team, and a damned good one at that.

They checked into a hotel in Oklahoma City in the afternoon. Barely noticing the beautiful, spacious suite they'd been given, Edward had a three-minute shower while Isabella sat on the bed, eating a protein bar (that was followed by painkillers). She got out of all the clothes she didn't need help with. Edward returned from the bathroom and leaned against the doorway as he brushed his teeth, chest bare and eyes weary. Isabella hesitated, wondering if she should voice her request to shower when he was so tired, but he agreed without protest. He kept his eyes averted when he held the shower head so that her shoulder would remain dry. Turning off the water, he tapped the edges of her gauze and wrapped her in a towel. Isabella put her palm against his chest, and they stood, frozen in time as water dripped from the wet edge of his towel against his feet. He ran his fingers through her hair and cupped the back of her neck, returning her gaze without blinking.

Isabella observed her hand on his chest. He felt warm under her fingertips, and his unwavering gaze made her hesitate. She didn't know if he was aware of the shift in his behavior. He'd always been respectful and wonderful, but not like this. He'd been unabashed in his affections, and she hadn't dared to look into it for fear of finding compassion, but she needed to know.

"You called me baby."

Her voice was low, expressing doubt without forming a question, and he knew that she would've believed him if he denied her words. And yet, he pressed a light kiss on top of her hair.

"I did."

He didn't move when Isabella kissed the skin on top of his heart. She felt light-headed in a way that had little to do with painkillers, and Edward watched her, explaining nothing and yet, explaining everything. Mindful of her hurting arm, he placed his hand flat against her back and held her to him. Isabella felt dizzy, cherished, and hopeful beyond belief. She didn't move until Edward kissed the top of her head and helped her into one of his T-shirts. He made their bed. He was reluctant to agree to hold her, but she convinced him she'd wake him up if he hurt her, and so he pulled her carefully in his arms and breathed against her hair. He was asleep in minutes.


	17. Missile Silo

…

 **Emma Matthews**  
by Anton M.

 **Chapter 17: Missile Silo**

…

A quiet night in Kansas was interrupted by the low rumble of two stealth Blackhawks heading southwest between Hays and Wichita. Seventy miles ahead of them, a truck with two people was parking in front of a nondescript farm in the middle of a prairie. In it sat a woman and a man. It was 2:34 AM on Sunday, February 7, and they'd been waiting since midnight. Few words had been shared, and neither had slept.

After two failed attempts to locate Carlisle by her and countless of attempts by different subunits of the FBI, she had finally gathered enough evidence to suspect Carlisle's presence in an old missile silo in Kansas. She proceeded cautiously, and only revealed her suspicions to one of Edward's best friends, James Livingston of the U.S. Marshals Special Tactics, Arrest and Rescue (STAR) unit. She kept her identity anonymous, and continued to monitor his behavior to see if the man took her information seriously.

He did.

After James Livingston's team (slowly and methodically) started looking into her story and making concrete plans to visit the place, Edward and Isabella reached out to him—as themselves. Shock and surprise were followed by discussions, and James suggested that Edward, who not only had the interest but all the qualifications to join his team, create the strategy for invading the missile silo. Although Edward had remained a Marshal Deputy (he had not been fired despite all controversy around his assumed actions) and had all the required certificates to make plans as important as these, it was legally dubious for James to cooperate with a man whose face had been plastered all over the walls of law enforcement agencies. But APBs held little interest for James. Convinced in Edward's abilities, his only goal was to capture Supervisory Deputy Marshal Cullen, and he had no doubt that Deputy Marshal Masen, Cullen's previous employee, was the man for the job.

Even without having met the man, Isabella could see why James had been on top of Edward's list of people to trust. He could've been risking his job by getting Edward involved, and Edward knew it. Under any other circumstances, he wouldn't have accepted the offer, but this was Carlisle, and Edward felt obliged to be involved.

He worked relentlessly for ten days, trying to remember every single opinion and preference Carlisle had ever had. Isabella, meanwhile, prevented Whitlock from being framed by sending information to the FBI Deputy Director Phillip Schultz (Narwhal), and therefore allowed James to cooperate with Jasper Whitlock. None of the team's members knew of Edward's involvement except for Livingston and Whitlock.

The first hearings Isabella was required to attend had been postponed by two months, but it was time to put an end to running. The past three months had been filled with revelations, tension, paranoia and trust, and neither could wait to be able to live a (somewhat) normal life again. Capturing the two men who'd been after Isabella since October would enable them to do that, and now that they had possible evidence of Jacob's presence in Carlisle's hideaway, planning had been cut short to catch them both. No second could be wasted.

"Will you make sure my family is safe if I don't make it?" Edward asked, and the odd, backwards question hung in the silence. Isabella turned to face him, arms still wrapped around her knees as she played with her fingers.

It had annoyed her when Edward kept assuring her that she wasn't about to die, but now that she faced the same question, it took little to understand that he'd only been assuring himself. She was tempted to tell him what he'd told her so many times— _you're not about to die_ —but however much she wanted it to be true, she couldn't prevent his death any more than she could prevent him from running into the carefully protected missile silo.

She knew which buttons to press to make him reconsider his decision, but he clearly felt he needed to be involved in catching Carlisle, and it felt wrong to convince him otherwise.

"I will," Isabella replied.

"I'm going to leave you my apartment."

"But—we had a prenuptial agreement."

"That doesn't mean I can't leave it to you."

"You shouldn't."

"I don't care."

She blinked at him, taking his hand and brushing her lips against his fingers. A lot had happened, and a lot had been left unsaid. January had been simmering with tension, hot beneath the surface but barely visible. Unaware as to who they should trust, they'd cut off everyone as they zigzaged the states. Edward made plans and arranged IDs, seeing to it that Isabella did not overexert herself. He changed her bandages, tailored the painkillers to her individual need yet gradually decreased the amount, and patiently helped her exercise. Her coordination improved as her pain lessened, and despite being unable to lift her arm above her shoulder, her improvement was unmistakeable.

Keeping their identities and location successfully hidden meant a rather secluded existence for Edward and Isabella, and she considered it a minor miracle that they hadn't driven each other mad yet. He was the only person she talked to, day or night. Neither of them was, by any stretch of imagination, perfect, and if they didn't share an opinion they rarely held back. But two headstrong individuals with a difference in life experience had argued under less stressful circumstances, and their disputes usually ended with a discussion, a compromise, or the eventual caving of one of them. Sometimes, Edward ended an argument with a hug, an odd but efficient solution to any dispute. Rarer, still, both refused to back down, but Edward's inability to fall asleep while angry saved them, and so they spent a few hours clearing the air until he wrapped her in his arms and both fell asleep.

But the vast majority of their discussions—even if they included disagreements—didn't grow into full-blown arguments. Their time together was spent planning and teasing, sharing pieces of their history and building trust. Most of all, they pretended the tension wasn't there, that Edward wasn't planning an invasion of a missile silo, that they were only just close friends. It was easier to pretend. She would've burst if she didn't force herself to ignore the tension between them.

One could say that they'd developed a mutualistic relationship: Edward put together the big picture while Isabella thrived on the details, and they both benefitted.

He bought all five seasons of _Breaking Bad_ after hearing that Isabella had never gotten around to the series, and watching a couple of episodes a day with Isabella, the girl who grew up surrounded by the world depicted in the series, he grew to appreciate her past on a whole new level. The details, the mistakes, the scenery… he couldn't have found a more adequate person to provide him with a commentary to the series.

It was like honeymoon without sex.

He'd been generous in his affections, taking liberties with personal space and sharing the occasional brief kiss, but he hadn't pushed further. She'd been too vulnerable the first few weeks to ask for more, and he'd been too busy the last few weeks to consider more. She enjoyed his proximity, of course, but she did wonder. Was he waiting for her shoulder to heal? Was he too occupied to think about it? How would he react if she initiated something herself? Whatever it was, she decided not to jump to conclusions. It would've been easy to assume the worst, but their trust had grown into near-unconditional loyalty, and she had no intention of throwing that away.

Edward and Isabella exited the truck when choppers appeared in the distance. The rumble of their descent filled her with tension, and Edward wrapped his arm around her shoulders. He had a strong, secure grip, and she leaned into him, wondering.

Nothing would be the same if this mission succeeded. They might be able to walk on the street without wigs or beards, they might be able to speak without fake accents or pretending not to know English. But what would happen to them? Would they go and live in Edward's apartment while she gave depositions and testimonies, while he was likely to be charged with manslaughter? They didn't speak of it. They didn't do much besides planning a missile silo invasion and preparing to defend their marriage. Most of their focus had been on tonight, and for a good reason.

They'd barely jumped on the chopper before the door slammed closed and they gained altitude. Eight of the ten grey seats were taken by six men and two women, all wearing black kevlar vests on top of their dark military-style clothes.

"Anthony!" A man with light brown hair patted Edward's back, yelling over the rumble of the chopper. "Always a pleasure."

The joking camaraderie the marshals had engaged in quieted as Supervisory Deputy James Livingston introduced himself to Isabella. He had a wide, round face and a short stature but sharp eyes and a loud voice.

"Marshal Anthony Masen has agreed to supervise this mission, and you are free to report his presence the moment this mission is over and your feet are on civil ground. Meanwhile, does anyone object to exploiting his skills?"

Surprised eyes followed the declaration, but no objection came. Instead, a man whooped before unbuckling his seatbelt and embracing Edward.

"Sneaky son of a bitch, man. Which rabbit hole were you hiding in?"

He sat back down, grinning, and soon, half a dozen people embraced him, shook hands with him, smiled at him. The other half introduced themselves. Eyes alive and energetic, the marshals and FBI agents received him with open arms. Having barely met any of his friends or acquaintances, it had been easy for Isabella to forget that Edward, unlike her, had a normal life with plenty of friends who cared about him. A fact illustrated by a middle-aged man, who said,

"If things don't work out and the man before us vanishes into thin air, let it be known that we were joined by Master Sergeant Derek Ray from the U.S. Army who arrived from overseas and asked to be involved in this case. Who sees Derek in front of us?"

He raised his arm, and observed as the rest followed his lead. Isabella, watching the team in silent admiration, locked eyes with Edward. He kept his composure, but his eyes revealed how touched he was, how proud and grateful. He asked a question about the order of diversions, received an answer, and crouched on the aisle as he started giving instructions and asking questions. Authoritative, skilled and in charge—Isabella could not believe the man giving instructions was her husband.

She hadn't seen him in action with his fellow marshals before, and the fact that his mere presence could cause a flurry of energy and optimism made her proud. A bit lonely, but undeniably proud. She felt out of place in her jeans and jacket (and a bulletproof vest on top, just in case), but this was Edward's day. It didn't matter how out of place she felt as long as she could join them.

It had been a long discussion, whether to reveal their identities upon meeting the team or to hide it. Isabella and Edward, used to distrust, had been in favor of hiding their identities to be able to protect James (and his team) who could then simply say that they had been lied to. But James wouldn't allow it, and because he had organized practical matters of the mission, he had the last say. How much trouble could he be in because of this decision, Edward couldn't say, but their success was going to factor in—errors in judgement were easier to forgive if the result appeared to justify the means, and capturing Carlisle would certainly justify (m)any means.

Now, all they had to do was find and catch the fucker.

Isabella found herself observed by more than a few people, and the hesitant glances felt like those she received on her first day of school, of any school. They didn't know what to make of her, or of her marriage to Edward. Jasper Whitlock gave her a nod from the other side of the chopper, and she wished he sat closer. At least she knew one person, and maybe, knowing what he knew, Whitlock would not be as hostile toward her as he had been that first night in Maryland.

An arm stretched out in front of her, and the owner had tan skin and a pony-tail. Unlike all the other occupants of the chopper, he wore his kevlar on top of casual clothes, and had no additional gear.

"I'm Paul," he said. "You probably hear this all the time from tech geeks, but what you did with the DEA… I'm a big fan."

She shook his hand. It wasn't unusual for the occasional enthusiast of cryptography and encryption to walk up to her and praise her skills or ask for advice, but it hadn't happened since the previous year and she needed a moment to regain her footing. Paul was easy to talk to and shared many of her programming interests, but when the silent anxiety of the marshals seeped into their conversation, Edward tapped Paul's shoulder.

"We'll be there in three," he said. "Can I have a moment with my wife?"

Edward switched places with Paul before he buckled his seatbelt and leaned forward, resting elbows on his knees. His night vision glasses and helmet lay on his lap as he took Isabella's hands. She'd never seen him so focused, so determined or serious, and yet… his gaze gave her goosebumps.

Three minutes separated them from a future where they could return to a somewhat normal life. Three minutes, likewise, could separate them from not seeing each other, ever again.

Unsaid words hung between them. Edward took a breath, unblinking, but instead of assuring her with words and giving promises he couldn't keep, he unbuckled his seatbelt and pressed his face against hers in a heated kiss. It wasn't a brief kiss of the friendly variety they'd shared for the past month, but a real, firm meeting of parted lips and brushing noses. He tightened his grip on her jaw when his helmet rolled in her lap. Sliding her hands around his neck, she gasped against his mouth, feeling dizzy, alive, surprised. _What took you so long?_ she wanted to ask, but his lips kept her silent, his palms cupping the back of her neck, his presence solid and electric against her. She stifled a smile, licking her lips, and he tugged at them and nudged her to open her mouth. Sharp gasps were felt rather than heard, and she placed his protective headgear back on his lap before meeting his eyes. She felt shy, tingly, cared for.

He kept his head close, unaware or uncaring of the attention they had drawn.

"Edward…"

He brushed his thumb over her chin, taking in her gaze, her parted lips and soft breath. The chopper started its descent, and Isabella unbuckled her seatbelt before she fell on his lap, squeezing him tightly, desperately, whisper-yelling against his ear,

"Come back to me alive, okay?"

He squeezed her, memorizing her body and scent and warmth. "I couldn't be prouder to call you my wife."

He pressed a firm kiss on her lips before he put on his helmet and night vision glasses. He retrieved his gun just as the chopper came to a stop. Orders were yelled out. Wind whistled in her ears when the door opened, and Edward disappeared into the night with his team. Paul slid the door closed and the chopper took off. Crude jokes no longer shouted over the rumble of the helicopter. Yards below them, three vans protected roads heading to the missile silo, and 31 men and women were involved in the mission Edward had been trusted to lead.

They could not prevent Carlisle & Co. from seeing the choppers on their radar, but they could arrive from every available direction at the same time, which they did. In light of recent revelations, James had trusted Isabella with the job of making sure that no marshal, officer or agent involved would have an undesirable connection to Carlisle. She had weeded out five marshals and three agents before the mission even began, and yet, nobody could be 100% sure that the selected 31 people were loyal to James and Edward. But she felt better that she could, at least, rule out obvious danger.

"I thought we were going to a surveillance van," Isabella told Paul, attempting to see the ground, but it was black under the murky sky.

"We are. Ours is about half a mile south, with a good vantage point."

The van would've had a good vantage point were it not for the fact that it was the middle of a cloudy night. The inside of the van was covered by screens and devices, and three paramedics sat on the floor playing a game of Rummy. They acknowledged Isabella and Paul with a nod, and the newcomers made their way to the equipment. Paul wore a strange half-smile on his face as he started to enter information into the computer.

"What?"

"Nothing," Paul replied, lifting his shoulder. "Just… glad to see that Marshal Masen has a weakness."

"If you see a flaw in his plan, he would've wanted to hear it. Their _lives_ are on the line."

"Relax." Paul dropped a pair of headphones in front of her. "I'm not talking about his plan. I meant you."

It was a surreal experience, having three paramedics play cards in the confined space behind them, hearing the first grenades go off in the darkness while discussing Edward's behavior as if none of the previous was happening. The card-playing she could understand—between bursts of terror, war situations were filled with boredom. But in spite of the surreal, terror-filled night, a string tugged in her heart.

"You think Edward was jealous?"

"Are you kidding? He did this—" Paul motioned on his eyes with his index and middle finger before pointing them at Isabella. "—before he left."

"He did not."

"Of course you didn't see it. Someone was too busy sucking his face off to notice anything else."

Isabella nudged him with her shoulder, smiling, but avoided eye contact. She readjusted the headphones to fit her.

"Are you trying to distract me?"

"That depends," Paul answered. "Is it working?"

It was. She felt useless, sitting here in a surveillance van while Edward was out there, giving orders, chasing Carlisle and making a real difference in the world. Even continuing to hack into Carlisle's communication system didn't make her feel as useful as it should have. If their plans had been on schedule, she would've been inside his system by the time they got here, but because they'd rushed things, she wasn't. Hopefully, it was a matter of time.

A microphone was attached to Paul's headphones (but not to hers), and she nearly jumped when she heard Edward's voice giving orders in her ear. Muffled shots, grenades, and short conversations served as a background noise. As she listened, she started to distinguish a woman probably from another van who informed Edward of the movements and changes in the enemy's lines.

"Relax," Paul said. "Marshal— your husband is really good at what he does."

"I know."

She focused on hacking in Carlisle's system, but she didn't take off her headphones.

The perfect coordination and timing required for moving forward made their progress like a dance. Edward had created a confounding order of distractions, several at once, so that they could move forward in one tunnel while waiting in another, and muffled shots sounded equally often around security cameras—ones Isabella had had access to—as they did around Carlisle's (or Jacob's) underlings. Screams, gasps and whispers reached her ears, but as long as Edward's voice sounded above the others, Isabella could breathe. She could see red spots moving on the rough outline of a map on the computer screen, but she was aware that the missile silo was around 150 feet deep, and they didn't have the technology to see which floor anyone was on. The spots would simply appear to stop moving once they reached the main room, but no unit had surpassed the others.

"Mansfield, Fielder, do you see what I see?"

A few seconds passed before halted agreements could be heard from the other two units.

"Tunnels, Burgess," Edward said, voicing the last name of the woman Isabella assumed to be in charge of their communication. Whistles, gasps and whispers expressed the enormity of their surprise. "We were expecting new tunnels, but what they've done… it's a maze."

"On two floors," another voice said. "Course of action?"

Only a few footsteps and falling pebbles interrupted the silence, and Isabella imagined all eyes, metaphorical or otherwise, on Edward.

"Guys, this one's different."

"Doyle, you idiot. Come—"

Ground shook, and the following blasts weren't remotely comparable to the fragmenting but local nature of a hand grenade. AN/FO or dynamite shattered rock. Seconds passed. The blasts rang in Isabella's ears, and the echoing whistle reflected on all the faces around her. It felt unreal. She held her breath, waiting for Edward to say a word. Anything. A cough, a rumble, a curse… anything.

"Marshal Ray, do you receive me?"

"Marshal Ray?"

The sound cracked in Isabella's headphones, and she sat, frozen in terror, waiting. She was not one to pray, but she found herself reiterating his name and pleading for him to be okay. When no words could be heard over the interrupted noise, Isabella threw off her headphones and got up.

"I'm going after him."

Paul grabbed her wrist. "No, you're not."

"He needs me."

She tried to twist her arm away from him, but Paul held it tighter. "Your husband is trained for this." His voice was quiet but firm. "You, are not. If he's dead, you cannot help him. If he's alive, he'll kill me if I let the woman he loves run into a hornet's nest. Please, Swan. We need you to hack into Cullen's system. Please, listen to me."

Isabella was painfully aware of her quick breathing as she stared at the man, and she hated him for being right. But before she could reply, Paul's head jerked in response to the headphones, and Isabella snatched hers from the table and put them on. Groaning and coughing echoed in the background of men and women saying their names.

"Fielder."

"Shaffer."

"Long."

As the marshals and agents continued to say their names, Isabella kept glancing at the screen, making sure that her encryption was strong enough to keep unwanted attention (Carlisle's or Jacob's men) away. She'd succeeded so far, but, desperate to hear a particular voice, most of her attention was on the names being said. Injured, dead and lost people were being listed, and she nearly jumped when she heard Edward's familiar if hoarse voice.

"Are you all okay up there?"

Disbelieving and mad with relief, Isabella grabbed Paul's microphone and said, with all the suppressed joy she had,

"We're good."

Breath whooshed out of Edward, and Isabella wished she could jump in his arms, leave this mission behind and let Carlisle rot in this cave while they fled the country never to be seen again. But, as life would have it, she had to enjoy his strained relief.

"Burgess? Nguyen?"

"Here."

"All good."

"Emma, is the moon out?"

 _Are they listening to us?_

Isabella leaned closer to Paul, taking his microphone and repeating, "We're good, Ray."

Edward exhaled sharply, a reaction he only seemed to have to Isabella, and said, " _Damn_ , it's good to hear your voice."

Smiling, Isabella returned to the task at hand, but she listened as new plans were being made.

"So Fielder's unit is unharmed. I have Curtis, Shelton, Wade and Pena. Pena is seriously injured, McCurry is unresponsive. We lost Lucas and Fletcher. From Mansfield's unit, we have Shaffer and Long wounded, Mansfield and Salinas seriously injured. Doyle is dead, and we're unable to determine the location of the rest. Livingston, how're yours up there?"

"We lost Terrell, everyone else is fine."

"Scan the area for any inconsistencies in the ground. There will be at least one extra exit, and if they want to escape, that's where they'll be. Can we have a Blackhawk keeping an eye on the area from above?"

A distant, slow whoosh of a rotor blade sped up before a helicopter took off, but Edward continued, "Livingston, can you send some reinforcement to the DEK 7743? I suggest Stein and Whitlock."

Isabella, recognizing the gesture (DEK 7743 was the license plate number of the van she was in), leaned closer to Paul to once again use his microphone. "Ray…"

"It's indisputable," Edward said, voice firm and serious. "Livingston?"

"I'm on it."

"Are you starting to see the sky, Emma?"

 _Have you made any progress with hacking?_

"Not yet."

"Keep going," he replied. "Can anyone calculate how quickly we'll run out of oxygen? To be clear, there are currently 16 people breathing underground."

"We don't know the size of the maze."

"Run an estimate as if it's the same width and height as the main tunnel, same length, and add an extra floor."

"How many tunnels?"

"A dozen heading east from the main tunnel I entered. Fielder?"

"Same, heading west."

"On it."

"Do you still have access to the main room, Fielder? Shaffer?"

"No."

"None."

The murmurs and whispers could be heard as Edward paused. "My unit has unarmed or wounded seven men, three of whom might've died in the blast. Shaffer? Fielder?"

"Three wounded, one dead from the blast."

"Three unarmed, one wounded, two dead."

Gathering information to change their plans continued in the same manner, until Edward gathered two of his uninjured men to examine the maze next to him. He suspected that they would start to circle the main room without being able to reach it, and unlike Doyle, he recognized places where he couldn't step without blowing up the rest of the maze. They proceeded carefully. After twenty minutes of hacking (for Isabella) and walking (for Edward and his companions), Edward reached Fielder's unit.

They'd begun to circle the main room, and the maze continued on the other side. The circular maze had trapped them.

"Fifteen hours, Marshal Ray," a woman's voice said. "Very rough estimate. Could be ten, could be twenty."

"Thank you."

Silence followed, and Isabella heard a 'shh' sound before gunshots echoed. She was sure it came from inside the maze, and maybe some of it did, but a loud smack against the van proved otherwise. Isabella was too close to getting inside Carlisle's system to be distracted, but adrenaline pumped in her veins. She took out her gun. A machine gun outside left a trail of bumps on the side of the van.

"You're not trained for this," Paul argued, disbelief clear on his face.

"There's a lot I'm not trained for," she replied. "Can you shoot a gun?"

"No, I…"

"Lie down."

Two paramedics, a man and a woman, also got out guns, and together they nodded at each other before Isabella opened the door. It was lighter outside, maybe half an hour before sunrise, but that's all Isabella could see before she pulled the trigger and middle-aged man fell on her feet. She scanned the area before taking his machine gun and giving it to one of the paramedics. It was surreal, killing a man and not having time to think about it. It would echo in her mind in the evening, tomorrow, the rest of the week and maybe a year, but the moment felt too urgent and unreal to think about it.

Her computer beeped. She lay next to Paul and switched their headphones without a word.

"Edward?"

She used his real name without thought, but it didn't matter now.

"You okay?" Edward asked, worry and urgency clear in his voice.

"Can you distinguish your own main tunnel from Mansfield's and Fielder's?"

"Yes."

"Fourth tunnel from the right will lead you to Carlisle. If the tunnel splits, always keep to the right. He's not in the main room—he wants you to think he is. And if he's not where I think he is, he slipped away this time."

Edward paused.

"You're a _genius_."

"Be very, very careful," Isabella replied, unable to grasp this dreamlike scenario for her next words. With the sound of bullets and grenades in the background, wind whistling outside, a chopper with a flashlight in the distance, they were the couple in the middle of this terror, taking care of each other in their own way.

"I love you," Isabella whispered, feeling like her heart could burst from affection.

She could hear him take a breath, but the connection was lost before he could reply. She lay on the floor of the van, a stolen gun in her hand, eyes trained on the door, trying not to consider how little it would take for either of them to die tonight. Gunshots echoed in the distance.

Was she content to leave the world like this? To never experience a possible future with Edward? To never put her skills to real use? To never live without paranoia, to swim every day, to start a family? To be surrounded by people she loved who took care of her in return?

A young paramedic distracted Isabella. He was swaying back and forth in the corner, palms covering his ears. Was this his first mission? Would she behave the same way if she did not have the past she had? Isabella crawled closer to him, tore off her medallion and uncurled the man's fingers. He locked eyes with her, and she nodded, placing it in his palm.

"It helps."

She didn't leave the van, but she didn't turn her eyes away from the door, either. Paul was right, she didn't have the training to be of any real use in a battlefield. She could've handled it mentally, but she was not as skilled as Edward. She couldn't sniff a guy from fifty yards away just because it made sense to hide in a certain place.

And Edward… she had no way of knowing the terrors he was facing this moment. Was he alive? Did Carlisle torture him to make him reveal her location? Why didn't she push harder to convince Edward to let her go with him? If Carlisle was, indeed, inside the maze, and if he wanted something, he would've wanted Isabella to fix his reputation. To plant evidence in emails or documents that he was falsely accused, that all his William Vahey-like behavior and the disbelief it gathered was a misunderstanding. He would've wanted to convince people that a man of his station couldn't be involved in child molestation and go undetected for years.

Isabella didn't consider herself to be cruel, but if physical violence was used on Carlisle, she would not condemn the action.

Slowly but surely, murmurs of conversation replaced gunshots. Paul removed his elbow from his face, and even the panicked paramedic stopped swaying in the corner. Spots of daylight landed on the floor, entering from the multiple holes on the sides of the van, and a few sparkles flashed from the broken wires. Unsure as to who had won, Isabella walked closer to the door. She pointed her gun at a dirty, bruised forehead when it opened.

"Mrs. Swan," James Livingston said, mildly amused. "A pleasure to see you alive."

She lowered the gun.

"Is he okay?"

"Injured but alive."

She almost collapsed in relief.

"Take your bag with you."

She did as she was told. James Livingston stepped aside as she hopped off the van, squinting at the cloudy but light morning. A pile of equipment lay on her right. Marshals and agents were taking care of each other, some were pulling more people out from the maze with ropes. A dozen men and women were handcuffed and facing the ground, but the same amount appeared to have bags drawn over their lifeless bodies.

"How bad are his injuries?"

"He needs to get on the first flight to The University of Kansas Hospital. I've spoken to them and they're ready to receive our lot."

"Where is he?"

"This way," he replied, heading for a Blackhawk in the distance. "I'd take them to the Kiowa County Memorial in Greensburg, but I'm afraid they don't have the manpower for all of our wounded."

Isabella, still taking in the amount of injury around them, recognized the two paramedics, both alive and busy, and lowered her head in shame.

"You must think I'm a coward."

Marshal Livingston put his hands in his pockets, regarding her. "Quite the opposite, I assure you," he said. "When you've been in my line of work as long as I have, you appreciate the people who don't overestimate their qualifications. If you'd overstepped my orders, you'd be dead, and I know at least one person here who could never forgive you for that."

She felt an overwhelming desire to see that one person.

"Still… I can hold a gun."

"Holding a gun and being able to grasp the tactics of two dozen skilled gunmen while not getting in their way… those are two very different concepts." Marshal Livingston smiled. "Burgess confirmed it was you who eventually found Carlisle."

"My husband was the one to find him. I only gave him directions."

"Nevertheless… You are highly useful in your own way."

Ignoring his comment, Isabella asked, "What happened to Carlisle?"

"He's unconscious like your Anthony. He'll be on the same helicopter with you."

She wished she could argue, but she couldn't. If Marshal Livingston didn't provide Carlisle the same medical help he provided to his own men and women, he might be facing a lawsuit.

"Do you know what happened between them? Did he torture Edward? Did they fight? For how long?"

It started to drizzle. It felt like an ordinary morning in the corner of Kansas, yet it was anything but.

"I'm afraid Anthony and Carlisle are the only two men with answers to those questions. Be patient."

Two women and two men were lifting military-style stretchers on the floor of the helicopter, and Isabella spotted Carlisle. His face was a ghastly blue, nose broken, and his neck and arm were wrapped in a bandage. Blood seeped through the white bandage on his neck.

Isabella forgot all about the man when she saw Edward who was yet to be lifted on the chopper. She threw away her bag to sit on the grass next to his body. _Injured_ was an underwhelming adjective for the man who lay on the green stretcher. The side of his face was a purplish color, the skin of his right arm was burnt from the outside, and a tight bandage had been wrapped around his thigh. It had reddened on the side.

"A bullet in his thigh, half of the skin on his arm burnt off and a concussion," James Livingston listed, as if from a shopping list. "He's seen worse."

Isabella, gently running her fingers through Edward's hair and feeling his pulse point, gave Marshal Livingston an incredulous look, but he excused himself to speak on his phone. Isabella leaned over Edward's face, careful not to move it, and gently brushed her lips against his cheek. His skin was dirty and cold, but he still smelled like her husband and she cherished it. The slightest of stubbles had grown on his face. Never had a dirty, bruised face felt sweeter to her eyes.

When Edward had been lifted on the helicopter with the rest of the wounded, a paramedic, and Marshal Nicole Fielder, James Livingston pocketed his phone and lifted three fingers for the pilot, indicating the three minutes he needed.

"You're not coming with us?"

"There's too much to be wrapped up here."

"Okay."

"Take care of Anthony for all of us. He doesn't really allow himself to be unprofessional around his colleagues, but… I'm glad to see a change in him. I don't see how he could've done any better for himself."

"I, er, thank you."

"Do you have a place to go after a week or two in the hospital? He'll be sent a notice of deposition, I'm sure, if not a straight out subpoena, but I can check his mail for you so that you could spend a few weeks with him. This whole thing with Carlisle might hit him harder now that they've faced each other, and I think he needs some time recuperating with someone he loves."

"I think he'd like that."

"So you have a place? Secluded, safe?"

"I think I do."

"That's all I need to know. I'll probably see you in the evening."

"Could you call the two people I told you about?"

The man smiled, and his exhaustion mixed with agility, in spite of his age, it all showed on his face. "I already did."

Isabella felt tremendous affection for the man who'd taken a chance on them, and she threw her arms around his neck. "Thank you for trusting Edward, for trusting me, for all of it."

"Are you serious? We'd all be dead had it been anyone else."

Feeling a bit awkward from her display of affection, Livingston stepped back and delivered two cards from his pocket.

"Marshal Sheila Curtis, her husband and two sons, as well as FBI Agent Jim Stein and his daughter are ready to give you a home in Kansas City and protect you while Anthony is in the hospital."

Isabella took the business cards, mouth agape, overwhelmed by the kindness of Edward's friends. Once again, she hugged Marshal James Livingston, who awkwardly retreated. "Now, now, did you think we'd leave you homeless?"

She smiled at him, and if she were the type to cry in front of strangers, she would have.

"Paul was eager to have you as well, but I think that would prove too much for Anthony's heart to take."

He started to slide the door closed, but Isabella needed one more answer. She'd postponed asking because she didn't think she wanted to know the answer, but she needed to know.

"Is my brother dead?"

"No. We caught twenty four people, dead, wounded and alive, but his lot appears to have slipped away. He's still out there, somewhere."

"So you made two phone calls?"

One for Edward's mother and one for Phil Dwyer, a man on her list of people to trust, so that she would have a bodyguard at all times while Edward was getting better.

"Yes," he replied. "Take care, Mrs. Swan. I might see you in the evening."

The door slid closed and the Blackhawk took off. A single paramedic kept an eye on the wounded during the hour and a half long ride to Kansas City. Isabella was glued to Edward's side, feeling like a silly girl as she held his arm in her lap, stroking it. She observed Edward's face, wiping hair from his forehead and pointedly ignoring the corner where Carlisle was lying. Exhaustion settled in, and she was startled to realize that she'd fallen asleep with her chin against her chest at the end of the journey. Her neck hurt.

Isabella was wide awake when they got permission to land on one of the three helipads on the hospital roof. Several nurses were waiting with stretchers, and she barely got to kiss Edward's forehead before he was taken into surgery. She didn't linger to find out where Carlisle would be taken or what, exactly, was wrong with him, and walked downstairs with a bunch of paperwork to fill. She knew this was only the beginning of red tape, and soon enough, a bunch of police officers were also bound to appear. Until then, however, Isabella intended to find Phil Dwyer, fill out paperwork, and take a nap on any bench, chair or window sill horizontal enough to be used as a bed.

Anxiety filled her. Relief filled her. They'd made it, they'd caught Carlisle and a bunch of criminals whose importance was yet to be determined. But it all felt so distant. It felt like a lifetime ago. She was mad with worry, and she had no outlet for it, no friends to call, nobody to listen. She closed her eyes, leaning against the elevator wall, wishing to be alone with Edward, snuggling on a Sunday morning on a secluded island in the middle of the ocean. Joking with him, feeling him kiss her the way he'd kissed her in the helicopter without having anything or anyone to stop it.

The elevator dinged and busy people with busy lives got off, and she knew it was her floor, too, but she caught sight of her face in the mirror and blinked at herself. She was covered by sweat, dust and blood. She had a bruise and a wound, starting from her ear to her chest, and her kevlar had blood splatters on it. She didn't realize she was still wearing it.

"Ma'am? Are you getting off or what?"

Startled, she stepped off the elevator and started to acknowledge the attention her attire had drawn. But it didn't matter, she needed to have a bodyguard, a pen, and a place to sleep, in that order. Maybe a protein bar or a banana somewhere in between, whichever was closer. She needed to keep her worry about Edward from overwhelming her. She had to keep herself useful. Time would pass quicker if she kept her mind busy or asleep.

She walked to the main entrance, looking for Phil Dwyer in the crowd, when a flash went off. She hadn't noticed any thunder, but when she blinked, she realized that people were standing up and openly taking pictures of her. They had microphones. She took a step back.

It felt like a surreal ending to a surreal morning.

"Where have you spent the last three months?"

"Did you get married to Marshal Masen to have spousal privilege and cover up his murder of Rhonda Burke? Are there any others?"

"Do you know of your brother's whereabouts?"

"What about Marshal Cullen?"

"Is it true that your husband was just taken to the ICU?"

She took another step back and averted her eyes. It was too much too soon. She was too alone and tired to process this. She was more likely to burst into tears from exhaustion and worry than form one coherent answer to their questions.

Who had told them? But it didn't matter. One whispered word of her whereabouts from one marshal to their kid, from them to their friends, and the snowball effect wasn't difficult to imagine.

A female security guard placed a firm hand on her back to shield her from the journalists, took her around the corner, and had a serious word with the crowd. Isabella, once again, rested her back against the wall and closed her eyes. She felt like a zoo animal.

"Well, look at you."

She was ready to snap or throw a punch and run, but when she opened her eyes, the bald mountain of a man in front of her had a smile on his face and arms wide open. She fell against him.

"Wow, you're dirty."

"Less complaining, more hugging."

Phil Dwyer was Eric's brother through their parents' marriage. He was twenty eight years old and owned a fitness club and (conveniently for Isabella) a boxing ring, which he frequented. He had a girlfriend Sandra who worked as a curator, and they had two five-year-old boys. Neither parent believed in marriage.

"Is the media fiasco here for you?"

"I wish I could deny, but… I think so."

"Eric will be pissed when he finds out you reached out to me after ignoring him for a month."

Pulling back, Isabella tied her hair in a bun and sighed. "It's been insane. Someone was ratting us out, and it was impossible to tell who it was, and I know he'd never do it, but… we had to. We just couldn't include anyone, anyone at all, it was so risky and—"

"Take a breath."

She shut up, giving him a tight smile before punching his arm. "It's so good to see you."

He smiled. "You, too. And to think you are a _Mrs._ now. Did Little El Camaleón the Swimming Master fall in love?"

"Oh, shut up. You're so full of yourself."

His smile widened, and it kind of warmed her heart to have this big brother figure tease her about silly stuff like this. But, she was so exhausted that instead of letting Phil know that, her lips trembled.

"He's in surgery, and… it's a mess. I don't know if Jacob is still after me or where he is, or if I… I just need Edward to be okay. He _has_ to be okay. If he, I can't… he cannot leave me."

Phil's face sobered. "You don't have to tell me anything if it incriminates anyone, but… if you have nobody else, and I have a feeling you might not." He shrugged. "I can pretend to be a girl."

Isabella scoffed, but it turned into a smile.

"Come on, now. I bet there's a bunch of nurses waiting to confirm shit with you. Why don't we get a pen and a Snickers and get to it?"


	18. Buenas tardes, hermanita

…

 **Emma Matthews**  
by Anton M.

 **Chapter 18: Buenas tardes, hermanita**

…

Isabella spent the night at FBI Agent Jim Stein's home. Of all her (three) options, he lived closest to the hospital. She returned at eight AM to sit in the ER waiting room, and not because Edward was in the ER but because she wasn't allowed to see him until the start of visiting hours at 11:30. Phil accompanied her.

Whispers and stares surrounded her. A newspaper headline read 'LITTLE CHAMELEON HAS RETURNED' above a picture of her in the hospital hallway, covered by dirt and blood. Her expression was one of bewilderment, shock, sadness—a version of the photograph, she discovered, circulated on websites and news articles. The articles wrote about her father, brother, assumed fate and DEA video. And what on Earth had happened to her? Reasonable assumptions of her whereabouts were interspersed with wild guesswork, followed by questions of her marriage, her brother, her bullet wound. It was believed that she'd lost enough blood to die a month ago, and yet, here she was, standing in the hospital hallway with no visible physical deformity. The proceeding conjecture surprised her little, but what did amaze her was the sympathy in the comment section. People asked the journalists to leave her alone and produce less conjecture. Some suggested therapy to help her heal the aftermath of whatever she'd been through. But overwhelming curiosity, inevitably, shined through every comment, even from those who considered her a crook because of her family.

Closing the tabs, one by one, Isabella began coding.

Hacking into the hospital's security system hardly posed a problem, but how could she be sure that the guards couldn't be bought? She could run background checks on them, but she felt better having actual videos of hospital doorways streaming on her computer screen. Yet she couldn't spend her days staring at the computer screen, neither did she want to. Instead, she ran background checks on the security guards, and gave them the photos of her brother she'd printed out. The fuss about her presence was big enough for most of them to understand her concern.

But they wouldn't have smiled with assurances if they really knew the danger.

She sent requests to pay attention to the security cameras to FBI Agent Jim Stein without mentioning her own access to said cameras. She also sent links to the (now properly encrypted) stream to three of her online friends. Every available eye would prove useful.

The problem was, she was positive that Jacob knew her train of thought. Even without access to the video footage to know where the cameras were situated or to replace an image of himself with a repeat footage of something else, Jacob could do a lot. He could sent a friend to gain information for him. He could steal a chip and gain access to the hospital as a doctor, a nurse, a lab worker or a cleaner. He could bomb the place with nothing but a shady bag in the corridor.

The options were endless, and now that their location was public knowledge, it might've been only a matter of time. She couldn't rule out a visit from Jacob unless she escaped with Edward without a warning.

If all else failed, they could fake their death. The choice didn't appeal to her because Edward had friends and a family (even if she didn't), but she couldn't help but put some thought into it. She was in enough danger for their (fake) deaths to feel real. If they did have to go through with it, they'd have to put a lot of effort and detail into it. They could afford no less than a flawless performance, but Edward wasn't okay yet. She couldn't just steal him away when he needed to heal in a hospital.

Rosalie's death still lingered in her mind, and a piece of her hoped that Rosalie had sensed danger and faked her own death. But the possibility raised too many questions, and she didn't dare to hope. The disappointment would've been too devastating.

A single question made her doubt all her decisions: why was she still alive? If Jacob truly wanted her dead, not caring about the means or the killer, would she not be dead by now? If he was at the missile silo and so much as _suspected_ her presence, why had he not come after her? Why had he not sent anyone to come after her? (Or had he?) Why had he not killed her or Edward? Why, upon glancing at the newspapers today morning, had he not simply hired a sniper to kill her? It would've been easy.

What was he waiting for? She used all precautions against his possible appearance, but a seed of doubt had planted itself in her mind, and she couldn't get rid of it. Jacob's interests differed from Isabella's, but her brother was uncommonly clever. Even high, Jacob was smart enough to find a way to kill her, and yet she was alive. It was puzzling.

Isabella returned to Edward's side the moment visitor's hours started.

Out of fear of infection or the severity of his injuries, he was kept alone.

She slid her fingers over his uninjured arm and squeezed his hand. Outside of his room, newspapers, whispers and wild guesswork surrounded her, but in here slept her husband, chest rising and falling softly under his johnny gown. It felt jarring to see him so vulnerable. The fallen blanket revealed a beige bandage wrapped around his right thigh, and she tugged at the blanket to cover him. His burn wound was hidden by a grey gauze-like material with holes in it, and the side of his face was blueish-purple. Isabella sat holding his knuckles to her lips until Edward's doctor held out her hand.

"You must be the Isabella Swan I read about in the newspaper this morning. Can't say I expected to receive a case as high profile as yours. I'm Dr. Clarke."

Isabella let go of Edward's hand to greet his doctor. "I'm glad to finally meet you."

Both spoke quietly enough not to wake up the sleeping patient.

Dr. Clarke had silvery hair, a pair of red, hard-framed glasses and smile wrinkles. "I bet you're filled with questions. Nurses told me that your husband came to at around midnight. They assured him you're alive and well taken care of."

Isabella slumped in relief. "So his cognitive function is normal?"

Dr. Clarke pressed her lips in a tight line. "His speech was slurred and he suffered from nausea, but he remembered his name as well as yours and seemed to know the circumstances which caused his injuries. I'm sure you're aware of this, but according to his medical records he suffered two serious concussions at the ages of ten and thirteen. We did a CT scan to rule out intracranial injury, and everything looked fine, but any changes have to be monitored."

"I'll keep a close eye on him," Isabella said, hoping to be of use.

The topic of their conversation stirred, turned his head, and blinked at his wife.

"Hey," he said, voice slightly hoarse but otherwise unaffected. Catching his hand when he reached out to her, Isabella sat on the edge of his bed and leaned over his face. She touched his forehead and started to stroke his skin as gently as her emotions allowed.

"Remember me?"

Edward's smile felt vulnerable and gentle. "Baby…"

Isabella pressed a kiss on his lips. "That's right. How do you feel?"

"Alive."

She laughed, kissing the back of his hand and holding it against her chest. "I've missed you."

Edward opened his mouth to reply, but stopped when he caught sight of his doctor observing the scene.

"We've met," Dr. Clarke said, nodding as a greeting. "Do you remember my name?"

"Doctor…" He took a breath, searching Isabella's face for clues. "Agnes?"

"Agnes Clarke, that's right. I was hoping we would have the chance to summarize your situation today. Do you feel any nausea? Dizziness? Double-vision?"

"No, just… drowsy, and, I feel quite detached from my head, in this odd, echoing way."

"Any pain or shortness of breath?"

"No, I… I have no difficulty breathing. I assume you gave me some pain-killers, too… there's no pain."

Dr. Clarke asked questions while checking his vitals, and Isabella went over what they'd discussed so far to update Edward.

"What about my gunshot wound?" Edward asked, pulling away the blanket Isabella had so carefully laid on his thigh. He curled his toes.

"You got very lucky. The bullet entered from the side and didn't hit the femur or the artery. It did go straight through your iliotibial band, a fibrous tissue right here—" She slid her hand along the outside of her thigh. "So you'll have trouble lifting your leg to the side. You'll walk, I'm sure, but you need physical therapy to run again. It might take a few months, but it could've been much worse."

"Will I have a permanent limp?"

Isabella kissed Edward's hand. "Like Dr. House?" she asked.

Dr. Clarke scoffed. "No. The nature of his problem was quite different. I believe he had an infarction in his leg and damaged tissue was removed. Now I can't _guarantee_ you won't have a limp, but a limp that severe would be highly unlikely. Right now you have some ugly-looking surgical staples in the skin, but we should be able to remove those next Monday if you heal as we expect. Now, as for your ribs…"

She took out a picture of an X-ray from the envelope in her hand, held it up in front of the window, and pointed on top of his ribcage. "I'm glad to say you don't have a flail chest or pulmonary contusion as we initially suspected, but these two uppermost ribs are still broken. It's more common to happen with injuries to the head and face."

"You don't do anything with those, do you," Edward said.

"We don't." Dr. Clarke confirmed. "I can see multiple healed fractions of the ribs, five or six. You've had extensive trauma to your ribcage as a pre-adolescent."

Edward eyed his burnt arm, saying nothing. Isabella's heart broke a little.

"I'm just glad these didn't refracture," Dr. Clarke said, returning the X-ray photo to her envelope. "I believe you have an appointment with Dr. Gervasoni from the Burn Care Unit at two PM, but what I can tell you is that you have a third degree burn that needs a skin graft transplantation from your own uninjured skin. I'm not an expert on the procedure of making the meshed graft, but I'm sure Dr. Gervasoni will explain the process to you."

She stood in front of Edward's bed like a firm schoolteacher when her phone beeped.

"Please, don't let us keep you," Isabella said.

Dr. Clarke smiled, mischief in her eyes. "Please, _keep_ me. Patients are an excellent excuse to skip board meetings. A bunch of wasted time, those are. Now, Edward—may I call you Edward?"

"I prefer Anthony. Edward is reserved for my wife."

Isabella stifled a smile.

"Are you tired? I only have a few more questions."

He sighed, no doubt exhausted. "It's okay."

"Did you have migraines before your concussions as a pre-teen?"

"Not once."

"Were they more frequent after concussions?"

"I wouldn't say that. They started when I was in my… early twenties and my previous doctor didn't think the link was strong enough to say that one caused the other."

"Are you aware that you have a high blood pressure?"

"Always have had." He blinked, rubbing his face. Drowsy-looking, he seemed to be making a conscious effort to follow the conversation. "It's genetic."

"You have a family history of myocardial events, I understand?"

"Yes. On my mother's side."

Isabella felt like a door had been opened for her. She'd teased Edward about his preference for rabbit food, and for what? To make him feel bad about wanting to live? She felt ashamed.

"I understand that you're a fit, young, healthy individual, but if the pattern is strong, it would be smart to consider your lifestyle choices, especially after this."

"My husband eats healthier than anyone I know," Isabella said.

Dr. Clarke smiled. "That's all a doctor wants to hear. Anything else you'd like to get off your chest?"

"How long will he have to stay in here?"

"If his test results are satisfactory and Dr. Gervasoni is able to transplant the skin graft within a few days, I expect to have your husband here for no less than fourteen days."

Isabella pursed her lips, eyeing Edward's arm.

"Cheer up, Isabella," Dr. Clarke said, smiling. "May I call you Isabella?"

"Of course."

"Anthony is young and fit, and got very lucky. There's no reason not to expect a full recovery."

She had a strict yet mischievous way about her.

"Well, look at that, a productive board meeting." She read an email on her phone before looking up. "They have just decided that no journalists are allowed on the premises unless they're invited or have a personal interest in being here. They can't appear anywhere the way they did yesterday."

"I—thank you."

"The fact that we never had this rule should tell you how often we have patients who gather public interest," Dr. Clarke continued, smiling. "They might try to hound you outside the hospital, but I think your big burly friend can take care of that."

Dialing a number, she left the room.

"I like her," Edward said. "She knows her auxiliary verbs."

Isabella laughed. A cannula for Edward's IV entered in his forearm, and she was careful not to disturb it as she held her lips to the back of his hand. But he let go and ran his fingers through her hair, stroking her temple. She leaned into his palm.

"I'm so relieved you're okay." He shut his eyes, gathering his energy. "Can you come closer?"

Frowning, Isabella leaned over him. "Are you all right?"

"Closer."

She put her hands on either side of his face. She felt warm and tingly as her lips brushed his. "Is this close enough?"

"No." There was a smile in his eyes. "But it will have to do for now."

The IV tube felt cool against her side as Edward stroked her hair, cupped the back of her neck and pulled her into a kiss. She stifled a smile at his urgency and opened her mouth, relishing his low hum. One-armed but determined, he pressed small kisses against her lips, her cheeks, her eyebrows. The coldness of his fingertips startled and thrilled her. "Sorry about the morning breath," he whispered, but he didn't stop kissing her. Careful not to press against his face, she smiled.

"It's sulfur gases."

He turned his face on the side so that his nose and lips brushed against her cheek. "How romantic."

Both laughed. Isabella cherished his proximity, his lightheartedness and affection, and neither pulled away. Edward stroked the back of her neck, humming against her skin, and she could feel the two-day stubble against her cheek. He kept rubbing his cheek against hers, slowly and reverently, enjoying her warmth.

"I'm in this with you," he whispered. Goose bumps rose on her neck when he stroked her skin. Her eyes locked in his.

"So this is real?"

He offered a tired, vulnerable smile. "Was it ever anything else?"

His broken ribs prevented her from collapsing against him, but as she pulled back, she stroked his forehead and kissed the corner of his lips, smiling. An imagined string tugged at her heart, tightly and undeniably, as he lingered to return her kiss. Isabella wanted to crush herself against him, to hug and hold him, to feel his heartbeat, but she had to consider his injuries.

"You need to rest," she whispered.

Edward, struggling to keep exhaustion away from his face, squeezed her hand.

"Not before you tell me they caught Carlisle and Jacob."

She had felt his question in the air from the moment he'd opened his eyes.

"Carlisle is in the ICU. I haven't inquired further, yet."

"And Jacob?"

"Got away."

His lips pursed in a grim line as he struggled to sit up, but Isabella held a hand against his shoulder.

"I've got this," she said.

"If your brother is still out there—"

"Then we might be screwed," she finished. "I know. But I'm doing everything I can, and you need to trust me and get some rest. Your health is all that matters right now."

Searching her face, he sighed and stretched out his uninjured arm. "Come here."

He had damaged his head, chest, arm and thigh—there was no way she could refrain from touching all of those body parts if she were to lay next to him.

"The nurses…"

"Numerous studies have shown that bodily contact is good for a person with high blood pressure."

Hesitating but amused, Isabella lay down next to her husband, careful not to push down on his chest (or arm or head or thigh). Edward wrapped his good arm around her and kissed her forehead.

"Really?" Isabella asked. "They've made studies on that?"

"No," he replied. "But it got you in my bed, didn't it."

A smile tugged at her lips when she rested her chin against his shoulder and surrounded his stomach with her arm, tenderly and lightly so as not to hurt him. It felt entirely too precious to see Edward acknowledge his feelings, if not in words then in actions, and as much uncertainty as the future held, she was content to know they were heading in the same direction.

Even breaths blew against her forehead as Edward fell asleep. She relished his warmth, but she had too many worries to rest. As easy as it was to ask Edward to trust her in dealing with Jacob, she was filled with doubts and questions about many issues. She needed to know how to act once an FBI agent came to inquire about their adventures and which part of their story was okay to reveal. She was almost desperately curious to find out what happened between Edward and Carlisle, but as coherent as Edward was, she couldn't ask him to relive Sunday yet.

She also had to let her husband know that (in spite of her assurances) his mother, sister and Tyler were flying to Brisbane, Australia, to board a plane heading for Los Angeles, and subsequently, Kansas City, Missouri. She had no objection to meeting his family, but how could she prevent putting them in danger? Jacob was out there, and if he was, indeed, waiting for something, was he perhaps waiting to get to Isabella through Edward's family? She could hire bodyguards (and Tyler accompanied his mother and sister), but would they help? The longer Edward stayed in a place publicly known, the more dangerous their situation would become.

Multiple Marshals and FBI agents paid Edward a visit. Baby carrots, laughter and entertaining cards filled his bedside. Isabella, wishing to give them privacy as much as she wished to be updated on video footages and her friends' leads on Jacob, sat outside his room with Phil by her side. His easy-going jokes distracted her.

James Livingston brought two marshals with him. The pair stood in the corridor opposite Isabella, wearing tucked-in button-ups and sunglasses. Edward wasn't happy to discover that it had taken James a day and a half to assign protection for his wife, but it was Isabella who had insisted that Phil was enough. In Edward's drowsy state of mind, he missed Dr. Clarke's comment about her big burly friend, and heard of Phil's presence for the first time from James.

"You look tired," James said, leaving Edward's room. Isabella could repeat the sentence back to him and it would've been no less true.

She closed her laptop. "It's my fault that you didn't assign anyone to me immediately. I'll explain it to him."

"No, he's quite right."

"He's not, but I'm happy with Phil. Look at him. He can handle this."

"Mrs. Swan," he said, motioning for her to take a step away from her friend. "He's right. Is your friend trained to notice discrepancies in behavior? Does he value the distance people have from you, their expression, body language, intentions? Does he carry a licensed gun? Does he have the means to contact the police within seconds? No, Anthony is right. Everything he's done so far has been to protect you. I can't fail him in this."

She could've easily forgotten his status at the U.S. Marshals Service were it not for monologues like this one. Hesitating, Isabella walked away from the bodyguards, voicing her main concern. "I don't trust them."

"But your husband does, and you will do well to trust his judgement. The man would sleep on hot coals for you even if he struggles to express it."

She eyed the two marshals, a woman of African-American descent and a caucasian man with a beard. They looked ordinary and trustworthy if slightly off-place in their sunglasses, but she had revealed more systemic duplicity and deceit than perhaps anyone. It could've been the president's personal bodyguards in the corridor, and she still would've struggled to trust them. Was she becoming too paranoid?

"Okay," she agreed.

"An FBI agent by the name of Linda Richardson, unrelated to the mission, wants to talk to you tomorrow morning at nine AM to discuss the mission with you. I've met her briefly a few times. She's firm but not unfair. Be polite, stick to the facts, and keep guesswork to yourself. She only wants to know what happened on Sunday morning."

"Will you be in trouble for agreeing to cooperate with us?"

"I hardly know," he replied. "Legally, I've done nothing wrong. They might convince me to resign. It will work in our favor long-term to reveal that you were the one to discover Carlisle in Kansas and that Anthony was the one who organized the mission. But to tell you the truth, they might force him to resign, too."

Isabella, who knew of the possibility, said nothing. James sighed and squeezed her shoulder. "He's a good chap."

Edward was eating dried fruits with nuts when Isabella joined him. Hesitating, her eyes revealed the apology she wasn't sure she should voice. She wanted to express how sorry she was that he might get fired, but, they'd discussed this. Edward had wanted to get involved no matter what.

"We're too paranoid," Edward said, putting away his bag of dried fruits. Dr. Clarke's worry about his blood pressure felt contradictory to the white bread and pudding served in the hospital, so Isabella took it upon herself to make sure he had as many bananas and nuts as his heart desired. Now, of course, his friends had made sure he had enough for two weeks.

Edward motioned for her lay by his side, and she did so without argument. She pressed a kiss on his shoulder, gentle as ever. He looked tired.

"I know," she replied.

"Sooner or later we're going to run out of people to trust. We need James, and he said you can run a background check on the two marshals, as thorough as you want. Off the record."

Isabella, satisfied but not calm, felt that the habit of questioning every action of every person, every friendship and unwelcome stranger was too strong to break overnight. But she would try, for the sake of Edward's sanity as well as her own. She would trust but verify. She hoped to live a reasonably dull, ordinary life with Edward, free of paranoia, and she had to make baby steps closer to that life.

"Your mother and sister should arrive with Tyler on Wednesday noon. I tried to discourage them, but it was no use. With Jacob still out there, we'll have to hire bodyguards for all of them. It'll be complicated."

Edward let out a long breath against her forehead. "I trust you."

The simple sentence unsettled her. He drew little circles against the fading black snowflake on the back of her arm, and Isabella breathed in his scent.

"You shouldn't," she whispered. "There's something wrong."

Bewildered, he stared at her. "What?"

"I don't think Jacob wants to kill me. I think I've known it for a while. I think he wants to get to me through you. It would be the perfect revenge to hurt the only person I have." Isabella, wide-eyed and worried out of her wits, finally let herself show her troubles. "Your family will arrive on Wednesday at five PM to Los Angeles, and their flight to Kansas City will take off at eleven PM. Within that time frame, you must convince them not to come. Tell them anything. If you don't, I'm ready to make an anonymous bomb threat to the airport, just to delay them. They cannot come here. Please."

Edward frowned as he took in her words. "All right," he replied, sounding resigned but determined. "We have to find someone to go there personally because I have a feeling that's the only way to convince them."

Isabella smoothed over his frown. "I'm sorry I'm preventing you from seeing your loved ones. All I do is bring worry and chaos into your life."

Edward kissed the tips of her fingers. "You protect my family," he whispered, stroking the back of her neck.

"You _are_ my family."

A strange expression covered Edward's face, unguarded and intense. His eyes didn't waver from hers when he bent to kiss her. Turning slightly on the side, he bit her lip. She let her hand travel, gently, on top of his stomach. Gulping air, he breathed against her ear.

"Careful there."

"Or what?"

His lips lingered against her neck before teeth grazed her skin. He was smiling. Precious as the memory would be to Isabella, making out on a hospital bed was far from optimal.

"You should rest."

"Am I not?"

"You have a concussion."

"I'm fine. No double-vision."

"You're hurt."

"Is this how it's going to be?" Edward challenged, smiling. "You're going to nag me about my shortcomings?"

Isabella, taken aback by his teasing, was reminded of her own. "I owe you an apology. All those times I teased you about your eating, I was trying to lighten your mood and be silly. You must've thought I was a jerk."

"I never thought that."

"If you'd told me you had a family history of heart attacks, I would've shut up."

"It's okay."

"It's not," she replied, pushing his hair away from his forehead, hoping to convey her emotions in words. "You're so responsible and loyal, and you feel _responsible_ for everything. You think strategically, and far ahead. Your colleagues look up to you. I've always appreciated those traits, and I wouldn't change you for the world. Do you understand?"

His eyes were alight with humor. "You really _like_ me."

She scoffed before Edward rubbed his thumb against her chin. "I like your teasing."

Regretful but happy to receive his forgiveness, she dropped the subject.

"I was told you found yourself a boxer for a bodyguard," Edward said. "Is he gay and fifty years old? Tell me he's gay and fifty years old."

She stifled a smile.

"And there I was, thinking you were too mature to be jealous."

Edward narrowed his eyes. "I'm never jealous."

"So this is… friendly concern?"

"Of course."

"So if I told you we went out last night to celebrate your—er, being alive, with our mouths and bodies, you would say…"

Edward's eyes flashed, but, recognizing her hook, he offered a blasé, "I would say, good for you."

"Huh," she replied. "So if we went to my bedroom afterwards to—"

Groaning, Edward shut her up with a kiss, and she smiled into it. Just a little bit silly, just enough fun, the atmosphere distracted them both from (and prepared them for) the onslaught of questions and decisions they would be sure to face in the next few days.

Marshal Tiana Williams, a critical, fiery woman from Lafayette, Louisiana, contrasted against her partner, Marshal Rickey Thomas from Frankfort, Kentucky. His greetings were mild-mannered, his comments scarce but eyes sharp. Isabella convinced and trusted Marshal Tiana Williams to stay with Edward before she drove home with the other Marshal.

Given the public nature of her location and the presence of a personal bodyguard, she had never been more tempted to find a pool. She could drop by a store and find a swimsuit before diving into chlorine water and forgetting about the world. Butterfly, breaststroke, backstroke, freestyle—she no longer had a preference as long as she could be weightless in silence, stroke the water underneath and above her and push herself off the wall of the pool to begin the cycle all over again. Why not? A marshal protected her, he might as well do it by the side of a pool.

Yet, it was Jacob's birthday tomorrow. Born on a chilly Tuesday morning on February 9, 1988, in Albuquerque, New Mexico, Jacob acquired birthright citizenship of the United States. Isabella, born in Tamaulipas, Mexico, was granted citizenship because of her mother, who had been present in the United states for the previous five years. Therefore, as much as the media discussed giving Jacob Swan over to the Mexican authorities, no law enforcement officer would actually do so.

If Jacob had waited for her to give into her desire to swim before the mission happened, this might've been exactly what he was looking for. As many doubts as Isabella had about his intentions, she had no desire to turn herself into a bull's eye in front of his bow.

Instead, she met with Edward's lawyer Brian Young who'd flown over to Kansas City from Baltimore. He was a balding, serious-looking man in his sixties, and they discussed her report.

If writing a letter on her mother's birthday had been tricky, writing one for her brother felt like highwire walking without a pole. What could she possibly have to tell him? _Thanks for not killing me, but can you spare Edward, too? Do you want father's money in return for Edward's family? Will you leave me alone if I stop looking for you? Would you have loved me if I chose to continue father's legacy? Remember the times when you were sober?_ Isabella filled two letter-sized pages with thoughts he'd never see before Marshal Rickey Thomas picked her up on Tuesday morning to take her to the Kansas City FBI building.

A slim lady in a grey costume sat across from her in a room with no windows, and Brian Young sat next to her. A recorder lay in front of Agent Richardson. Isabella sat stoically, determined not to reveal any emotion, trying to remember everything Edward and James had told her. _Tell the truth. Answer to the questions asked. Don't appear nervous. Don't_ be _nervous. Stick to the facts._

And then, Edward's, _If she goes beyond her assignment to record what happened on Sunday morning and starts digging in what happened after we escaped Wisconsin, say nothing._

Isabella was not officially under questioning. Nobody of consequence suspected anything as far as Edward and Isabella knew. She'd been prepared to write a report on what happened on Sunday morning, but somebody, up in the power ladder — FBI Director Marion B. Pasquier, if she had to guess — wanted an interview. It was possible that this was prelude to make her squirm under questioning, later.

"State your name," FBI Agent Richardson said.

"Isabella Areli Swan."

"When and where were you born?"

The questioning continued with simple facts, until the FBI agent got down to business. "Is it true that you discovered the location of Supervisory Deputy Marshal Carlisle Cullen that led to the mission on Sunday night?"

"Yes."

"What was the date when you discovered him?"

"January 26."

"How did you come about this information?"

Isabella, hesitating, looked at her lawyer. She knew that this was to be the beginning of the real challenge: on this cloudy morning of Jacob's birthday in a closed room in a nondescript building in Missouri, a mile and half from the Kansas border, she was going to say nothing and yet, say everything. Had she been deposed or testifying on a trial, she would've pled the fifth. But she said nothing.

The agent frowned, barely, writing something on her notebook.

Isabella wasn't afraid of pleading the fifth. She'd done it before. If everything she'd done in the past few years had come to light, she might've been imprisoned for years. But pleading the fifth didn't actually offer proof of her wrongdoing. Offering the prosecutor an excuse to snoop around, while risky, wasn't evidence.

The alternative would be to lie, but if Isabella had taught Edward the grey areas in justice, he had taught her the lines. In a situation where she wouldn't have hesitated to push the borders before meeting him, her loyalty to Edward prevented her from doing so, now. She'd plead the fifth, once it came down to it.

"When did you enter Kansas?"

The following questions were all about that single night by the missile silo. They touched upon the fact that Isabella had killed a man identified as her father's underling, and while nobody would arrest her for shooting a criminal in self-defense, she would have to fill out mountains of paperwork. But Edward knew what to say and how to say it, so Isabella wasn't too worried.

Still, the need for such a skill felt surreal.

Even if she was curious, Agent Linda Richardson didn't touch upon her past, and Isabella could answer every question without having to lie.

She'd seen the hurricane from afar and found a safe haven, but that didn't change the weather. It was a stroke of luck, not being questioned further. Or was it? Did the Director of the FBI want her to feel (falsely) secure by not asking about the things they _really_ wanted to know? Did he have a plan as to how he intended to deal with her? Had Carlisle told him that Isabella could be on to him?

Reality settled in. This was how it was going be from now on, perhaps for a few years: sitting by her lawyer in a closed room, answering questions, giving depositions, testifying. Pleading the fifth amendment and claiming spousal privilege whenever it proved necessary. If her encryptions worked as well as she hoped, then her possible imprisonment lay in the hands of her friends and her husband. Loyalty, a quality that defined Edward, would prove to be crucial from her friends.

When Isabella returned to the hospital by lunchtime, she found Edward's arm covered by a thin, fishing net-looking material. Skin for the meshed graft had been taken from his healthy thigh.

"You didn't say we're all over the newspapers."

Isabella, tearing her eyes from the strange-looking graft on his arm, sat on his bed. Dr. Clarke had mentioned the media when Edward woke up the day before, but his concussion seemed to have broken his focus.

"They'll find a new toy to play with soon enough."

"Are they harassing you?"

"It's fine. They just want fresh photos, that's all."

"You're sure?" Edward set aside his lunch to take her hand.

"I am."

He sat up slightly, looking her in the eye. In a low voice, he asked, "How was the report?"

"Long. Tiring."

"Did the agent stick to the point?"

"She did."

She pressed her lips against the back of his hand as she cowered slightly, pondering. His eyes, grayish-green and intense, didn't leave hers.

"Will you tell me what happened?" Isabella asked. "I know that you've agreed to talk to Agent Richardson tomorrow afternoon. Can I join you?"

"I don't know, _can_ you?" When she didn't crack a smile, he brushed his thumb over her lips. "Yes."

"Yeah?"

"Of course."

"I've been wanting to ask… I'm so curious, but you're hurt and I don't want to exhaust you."

"I'm all right. Are you?" His eyes softened. "You haven't slept."

She thought of arguing but reconsidered and pursed her lips in smile. It was a bit embarrassed and a bit longing. "I guess I'm used to your hand."

He pressed a kiss on her knuckles. "Soon."

Edward had found a friend of a friend who agreed to find his family at the LAX airport, but then what? Would they send his family back to New Zealand? Let them stay in the States and hire bodyguards for them but not allow them to see Edward? How could they maximize the efforts put into Jacob's capturing without drawing attention to the fact? How would they continue to prepare to defend their marriage with so many eyes on them? How could Isabella solve this, how could she let Jacob know that she'd promise to stop searching for him if he only left Edward's family alone?

It was too much to solve for a single person, and as much as she tried, it was difficult to be on top of her game when she hadn't slept.

At two PM, when Edward was asleep and Isabella sat in the corridor with her laptop, Dr. Clarke walked up to her. She wasn't wearing her hard-framed glasses and it made her appear strangely vulnerable, older, tired.

"I have a few updates on Marshal Masen."

"Should I be worried?"

"Not at all. This will only take a few minutes."

She closed her laptop while Dr. Clarke eyed the Marshals on either side of Isabella.

"It's fine, Dr. Clarke. They're only here to protect me."

"I understand," she replied. "But the nature of my talk is delicate."

Listening to the heartbeat in her ears, Isabella silently slid her computer in her backpack and turned to the Marshals. "Is it okay if you check her office before standing behind the room?"

A short, narrow corridor led to Dr. Clarke's office, and Isabella would've missed the passing nurse in blue scrubs if Marshal Thomas hadn't twitched before staring at the nurse, wide-eyed. He raised his arms to call for help, but a man physically held him until the marshal lost consciousness. A large palm had pressed against Isabella's mouth, muffling her voice, before cloth was stuffed into it. She pushed, kicked and writhed, hoping for Marshal Williams to notice and discover the situation from the end of the corridor, but the man holding Isabella didn't flinch as he dragged her to a doctor's office. Dr. Clarke was pushed behind her.

"You scream and she dies."

A man held Dr. Clarke at gunpoint.

Marshal Williams was dragged in the office after Marshal Thomas, and Isabella's hope dwindled.

She stopped struggling, blinking at her brother who sat on the office table in scrubs, his legs dangling off the table. He'd shaved off his eyebrows and hair. His arms were wider, larger and tanned, as if he'd been lifting weights. He'd gained weight. But the brown eyes— _her_ eyes—gave him away.

This was exactly the kind of thing she'd feared would happen.

"Buenas tardes, hermanita.*"

He hopped off the table, and nodded at the man holding Dr. Clarke, before she, too, felt a needle in her neck. The Doctor took a hesitant step before she slumped on a chair. Her head fell on the side. Isabella muffled a scream. She hadn't done anything, and yet, he'd taken Dr. Clarke out. Jacob, unusually large, stepped in front of her and squeezed her shoulders.

"It's only propofol, so we have to be quick," he said, lowering his mask. "Now, I'm going to remove this cloth. You scream and she dies. Nod if you understand."

Bewildered, Isabella nodded. Three men kept their eyes on the unconscious bodies by the door.

She felt a surge of conflicting emotions as she gasped for air. She wanted to punch him, to call the police, to argue with him, to strangle him. But, low beneath the surface, she also wanted to hug him. How strange it felt, the urge, but she couldn't deny it, and to see him so healthy… it had been a while. Her heart ached.

"We both know I don't want to kill you."

Jacob sat and motioned on the other chair. She sat opposite him.

"Do you want to see me bleed? To torture me? To get my money? To kill Edward's family? To make me falsify documents to let the world know that Cullen was misunderstood? What?"

Jacob's eyes never left hers as he removed the mask from around his neck. He sat, large and imposing in a way she'd never seen, elbows resting on his knees, observing her. He interlaced his fingers together. She could see the two birthmarks above his upper lip as well as a shaving cut on his left cheek. Calm and quiet, he sat, and it unnerved her before she took a sharp breath.

"Jesus Christ, Jacob, you're sober."

She hadn't seen him sober in a dozen years. Not truly. He had his bursts of pretend-sobriety, of frustration sobriety, of the times he was almost, irritatedly near-sober, when he needed a new hit, cocaine, benzodiazepines, opium, whatever his choice of drug at the time happened to be. She recognized the first symptoms of withdrawal, she knew the look in his eye when he was high, but she had not, for better or for worse, forgotten how he looked like when he was sober.

"I still get seizures, sometimes," he admitted, his low voice almost child-like. He opened his palms, holding one out to her, and she could see it tremble. "It's not completely gone."

None of the three men by the door were holding guns on anyone, and she eyed the scene with some degree of suspicion. Was he manipulating her? Was there a compound to dim the effect of a drug to make him seem sober?

"You're not scared of me," he stated. "I don't think you ever were, even after I tried to kill you. If you had been, you would've prevented this. You would've taken your husband to a private hospital where you could control the environment more easily. You could've killed one of my men, just now. But you didn't. Because you hoped, didn't you? You always hoped."

She'd told Edward that if Jacob was ever on to them, he'd get the job done. He'd kill them with no apologies, no excuses, no begging of forgiveness. He wouldn't linger. So what was he up to? She didn't know this Jacob.

"Don't you wonder, why propofol?" he asked. "Why not to straight out kill them? I could've used the drug on your doctor, and killed the other two, just so I could manipulate with your actions by threatening to kill her, too."

This cool, calm, collected man, a man she didn't feel like she knew, took a breath. "I never wanted to kill you."

She let out a humorless laugh. "Sure you didn't."

He held her gaze. "I swear it, Bella. I'm sorry that I hurt you."

"What are you up to, Jacob? How much money do you need to leave us alone?"

"Why didn't you try harder to catch me?" Jacob asked.

"I was trying to find Cullen."

"Right," he replied. "So it had nothing to do with the fact that, the moment you'd been seen twice and I hadn't shown up, you suspected I no longer wanted to kill you? Or the fact that you haven't told your _husband_ much about me because, despite everything, you still hoped? We both know you'd have been dead long ago if I actually put all my resources to use. I think you still cherish the memory of us."

"Does that make you feel superior, having found my weak spot?"

Pressing his lips together, Jacob sighed. "Dad wanted me to be the one to take his life."

" _What_?"

"He wanted me to kill him."

Her world spun, and she was dizzy with disbelief.

"No. Dad was not like that. He was a fighter."

"Bella," Jacob whispered, scooting his chair closer. "He married into mom's family, a family of so many suicides… he missed her. He was in pain. He needed euthanasia, and he thought I was strong enough to do it."

"You're lying. You're wrong. Dad would've never deliberately left us the way mom—"

She pressed her lips together, taking a breath, willing for Jacob to shift, to blink and show signs of anxiety, but he simply watched her until his face softened.

"He wanted peace. He wanted mom. That doesn't mean he didn't love us."

Isabella swallowed back the tightness in her throat.

"You tried to strangle me."

She silently observed the tremble in his hand as Jacob wiped his bald head.

"I was on LSD. I couldn't be sober to kill him, I couldn't. He believed I could, but I couldn't. You don't know how hard I tried to get sober, but you don't know what it's like… every moment brings physical pain when you're not on anything. You weren't there when I tried. The night we agreed I'd do it, I overdosed, and you were not supposed to be there, and I was so angry at you for not knowing about this, for being dad's favorite, for getting all the good genes. I hated you for not knowing how painful it was to have to do what I did."

"I thought you wanted his money."

"I was the one who told him to give it all to you. And I know you no longer have it. I always knew you'd put it in good use."

Isabella eyed her fingers. "You used a knife."

"Dad was knocked out on opioids. I lost my gun, and I couldn't postpone his misery and mine to another night. I never meant to do it that way."

"But you _agreed_ to it."

"He had pancreatic cancer, Bella. Terminal, the way those tend to be. He wanted _mom_. He just didn't have the guts to leave us the way she did."

Struggling to argue, Isabella took in his words. She hadn't had a clue, and yet, she didn't doubt his words. Her head was swimming.

It was surreal to hear him speak, his eyes and mind clear, his voice quiet, the way it used to be when she was a pre-teen. And that, after all this time, as much as she hated it, her brother _knew_ her, and he was absolutely right—she'd never been particularly scared of him. She was scared of the ghost of him that appeared to her during the night, but she wasn't afraid of him, physically. She should've been, but she wasn't, and however flawed her logic was or however much her tiredness was wrapped up in hope, she didn't believe he wanted to kill her, today.

"You teamed up with Carlisle."

When Marshal Rickey Thomas, who had moved, was injected another dose, the room felt like a distant world detached from her body.

"Listen—" Jacob started, but she interrupted.

"If you're going to protect—"

"No. He's a perverse son of a bitch and I hope he drinks fluids from a tube for the rest of his life."

Isabella, having seen that kind of resolute vehemence twice in her life, felt nauseated. The suppressed passion delivered with feigned detachment belonged with people who'd been personally harmed, psychologically and physically, by the object of that hatred. It's how she always knew that Rosalie would stay with her until they ruined Pasquier's reputation and put him behind bars.

"Did he—"

She hadn't known Carlisle was Jacob's godfather at the time, but the man did visit them when she was a kid. Did he take advantage of Jacob?

He shook his head. "But when I discovered him, I… he had two boys with him and I had to—pretend personal interest to get those kids out of there. I've never felt more depraved."

"But you—you met up with him in Ohio, I know you did."

"I did, he did believe that I wanted to kill you and that the purpose of the meeting was to let me know of your location. But what he didn't know was that I didn't care. I had no desire to kill you. I was still on drugs, but I'd seen what he intended with those two boys, and I only wanted to have evidence and call the cops on him. But either I waited too long until I was away from him, or the cops were corrupt, but he was gone by the time the police arrived. I never came after you."

"But the camera in Portland, the chase in New Mexico, Rhonda in North Carolina—"

"Vicente's daughter blabbed about your presence to her boyfriend. A rumor was going around that money could be earned from your head, and he wanted the money. That's all it was. I never put a hit out on you. I might've, had I been on drugs, but after my meeting with Carlisle, a friend locked me up in his basement to get me sober. It's a long story." His smile was self-deprecating. "And Rhonda, like all the others, was convinced that she'd get awarded for your head. Because I'd been addicted for so long, they all assumed I'd put a hit out on you. Even you."

Jacob looked at his watch and put his surgical mask around his neck. "Your husband thinks that Carlisle might be his sister's father."

" _What_?"

He stood up.

"Do you love him?"

"What?"

"Masen, is that his name? Is your marriage for real?"

Jacob smiled when a blush covered her cheeks.

"I thought so. He had better strategies to protect you at the missile silo than you'll ever know. He'll be good for you." Jacob bit his lip, squeezing his wrist, appearing nervous, but the look in his eyes was soft and affectionate. "You'll be an aunt in a few months."

Isabella gaped.

"You'll see news of my death, too, but nobody will find my body." He took a breath, pressing his index finger against his ear (receiving a message), and motioned for his friends to move.

"I have to go. They've noticed your absence. I needed you to understand, that's all."

Isabella, overwhelmed by this surge of information and emotion, threw herself against him, hugging him with all her might. He embraced her.

Had she forgiven him? This was the clear-sighted brother she hadn't seen in twelve years. She had questions, but he had to run, and neither of them pretended that she was going to call the police.

"I love you, little sis," he said, pulling back and squeezing her shoulders. "But I have to drug you, too, you understand?"

She sat on the floor, in disbelief of how much she trusted her brother when he was sober. Jacob injected a needle in her arm.

"Did you quit smoking, too?"

His lip twitched. "I'm not a saint."

Two long halogen lamps created shadows in her vision when she woke up. Edward sat by her bed in his johnny gown, immersed in a discussion with Marshal James Livingston, and half a dozen police officers could be seen in the hallway. Dr. Clarke sat on her bed, arguing with some nurses while a nurse beside Marshal Williams injected a fluid in her IV cannula. When Isabella opened her palm to find a sticker of a white poppy, it nearly brought tears to her eyes. It hadn't been a dream.

Noticing her open eyes, Edward shut up in the middle of his sentence and stroked her forehead. A cane was leaning against his chair. "Baby…" His voice was laced with worry and eyes filled with questions.

Isabella took his hand and kissed his palm, filled with hope. With all the trials and tribulations ahead of them, they might just be okay.

* * *

* Buenas tardes, hermanita. - Good afternoon, little sister.


	19. Hope

…

 **Emma Matthews**  
by Anton M.

 **Chapter 19: Hope**

…

Dr. Clarke, dismissing the nurses, walked over to Isabella's bed. She stared at her hands as she explained that the men had led her to believe that her only grandson had been kidnapped and she never meant for Isabella or the two marshals to be hurt. Her lack of glasses, her use of Edward's last name, her nervous eyeing of the marshals before they had been taken—the clues had been right in front of Isabella. Relieved that nothing 'delicate' had to be discussed concerning Edward, Isabella convinced Dr. Clarke that forgiveness was unnecessary. People were helpless when facing threats against their family.

Marshal Livingston, silently listening to the conversation, motioned for two police officers to walk over. Edward, painfully aware of how easily he could've lost Isabella, couldn't tear his eyes from her face.

"Was it your brother?" he asked.

Roomful of eyes landed on Isabella, and with sobering clarity, she realized that nobody had seen or recognized Jacob.

A police officer placed a recorder on her blanket, nodding for her to continue.

 _People were helpless when facing threats against their family_ , Isabella had told Dr. Clarke. She was about to set a prime example, and do her best to convince the four law enforcement officers—six if you counted Marshals Williams and Thomas, still connected to IV fluids—that Jacob hadn't set his foot in the hospital.

"No," she lied. "They were his underlings. Four of them."

Heart hammering in her chest, she waited for Dr. Clarke or the two marshals to disagree, but none of them did.

"What did they want?"

"Money," she replied. "And they wanted me to know that if I cooperated with you to catch my brother, he'd kill Edward's family."

Her husband stiffened but squeezed her hand. Instead of looking at his face, Isabella watched the blood pressure monitor around her arm. It showed 112/73, less than her normal but nothing consequential.

"Start from the beginning. What did they look like? Any specific characteristics? Height, weight? Tell us everything you remember from your conversation."

Isabella, keeping to the facts to the point where Dr. Clarke had been injected with propofol, found herself making up a plethora of descriptions and conversations that never happened. She had to keep her description somewhat realistic because Dr. Clarke, unlike the two marshals, had seen the four men. But they had worn nurse masks, so Isabella could invent body piercings and tattoos of single-eyed lions on the back of their necks.

All bullshit, of course. Jacob was far too smart to have tattoos—any criminal, determined to remain undetected, would be a fool to get one. That kind of specific, undeniable characteristic might (and often did) prove fatal to their capture.

"We will double the security in the hospital," Marshal James Livingston said. "But I'm afraid we cannot lock your bank account. If he uses it, we need the information to locate him."

As if Jacob, even if he did want her money, would be stupid enough not to relocate that money between different banks and countries to make finances virtually untraceable.

Either way, she still had six active bank accounts. One here or there, it didn't matter much to her.

"Of course."

Marshal Livingston shared a glance with Edward. "While you were taken by Jacob's men, someone switched off the mechanical ventilator providing oxygen for Cullen. They estimate that he was clinically dead between three to six minutes before resuscitation. It's not probable that he regains consciousness, but if he does, he'll suffer severe brain damage and will be unlikely to be coherent enough to face a trial."

 _I hope he drinks fluids from a tube for the rest of his life_ , Jacob had said. Instead of an empty wish, he had made a promise, and she didn't know what she felt. Was it relief? Regret? Did Carlisle deserve this punishment? It was as severe a punishment as she could imagine, being tied to bed for life, but wouldn't it have been better if he had seen his reputation plummet and spent years dropping soap in the prison shower?

A police officer entered the room, nodding as a greeting. "FBI Director Pasquier was shot in an interview three minutes ago. He's dead."

Pale faces stared at the woman—all except Edward. Instead, he observed his wife. He'd known that she'd intended to uncover crimes the FBI director had committed, but he wasn't aware of the specifics. Who, and why, had shot the man? And what had he done to deserve it?

Propofol hadn't made Isabella feel as dizzy as this onslaught of news made her, and she slid her legs over her bed and asked a nurse to bring Edward a wheelchair.

"It's okay," he said, standing up. "They tell me I should practice putting weight on my leg."

"Very well, then," Isabella replied, taking her bag and holding Edward's arm as they slowly walked to his room. Marshals and police officers checked the news and made phone calls, and the two officers who followed Isabella and Edward up to his room were in deep conversation. Isabella walked up to them when Edward had sat on his bed.

"Officers, would you mind giving us some privacy?"

"Mrs. Swan, we have strict instructions—"

"Not to let anyone kill us. I understand. However, your job is not to protect us from _each other_ , is it? You may check the bathroom for any boogiemen before you leave."

"Mrs. Swan—"

Isabella wiped her face, feeling exhausted, relieved, and desperate to speak to Edward privately.

"Do you have a significant other, Officer—" She checked her name tag. "Hallberg? What do you think young couples in love do after a near-death experience?"

Embarrassed, Officer Ada Hallberg averted her eyes. "We'd be happy to check your bathroom."

"Brilliant."

Once the door clicked closed, Isabella relaxed against Edward. She pressed her chin against his shoulder and rested her hand under his chest. Edward pressed a kiss against her hair. His scent surrounded her, so familiar and, now, full of hope.

"You were lying."

Unsurprised that he'd noticed her inability to lock eyes with him as she'd told her story, Isabella opened her palm in front of his face. Edward peeled off her sticker.

"Jacob?"

"Jacob."

He pressed the white poppy against the back of her hand, eyes searching hers. "Tell me."

She explained the events and conversations as they happened, Jacob's sobriety, apologies, his knowledge of her doubts and his deal with their father. She felt relieved to share the truth.

"And you believed him?"

"I did."

"You do realize that men like him are experts at manipulation?"

"He's _my_ _brother_. He's my flesh and blood. He knows me inside out, but I know _him_ , too. Don't undermine my experience and judgement of my brother just because you're a law enforcement officer. He's telling the truth."

Edward brushed hair from her face before wrapping his arms around her, gently and affectionately, the way he sometimes did to stop an argument.

"I believe you," he whispered, squeezing her. "So he didn't threaten to come after my family?"

"He did not."

Relaxing, Edward brushed his lips against her forehead. "Did he attempt to kill Cullen?"

"It would've been one hell of a coincidence if he wasn't the one giving orders." Isabella hesitated. "Do you think I made the right decision, letting him go?"

Running his fingers along her spine, Edward paused.

"I think you made the only decision that lets you live with yourself," he said. "As your husband, my spousal privilege prevents me from saying anything. As the marshal assigned to protect you… your brother never stepped into this building."

Tilting her head up, Isabella captured his lips in a slow kiss. Reminding herself not to move much, she squeezed his waist, humming. Edward kept his nose against hers.

"What about FBI Director Pasquier?"

"I think my brother orchestrated both incidents. I'm sure he timed both events down to the last second."

"But what did he do? You've been after him since the beginning."

"He was an executive chairman in a company where Rosalie worked, years ago. He assaulted her. She didn't have proof, and he taunted her that his behavior was excused because she had Asperger's and… it's a bunch of fuckuppery we've never been able to prove. We found other women he's assaulted but none was willing to come forward unless we had proof, which we didn't. I could've put him away for a decade for trivial stuff like money laundering, but it always bothered me that his reputation would've been left intact if I did that. But I guess it no longer matters. I hope Rosalie can humiliate him in unmentionable ways if he has the audacity to arrive at the pearly gates."

"I'm sorry this happened to her," Edward said, quietly.

"Me, too." Isabella sighed. "But what you have to understand is that the people who stuck with me, Rosalie, Eric, Jessica, Mike, even Phil, they all have personal reasons for helping me. Either I found a way to help their family and they wanted to return the favor, or I offered them the opportunity to do something about the people who had, so far, gotten away with stuff like that."

"Did Jacob know about what happened to your friend?"

"He did… but I never thought he cared." Isabella paused. "Jacob… he said something curious. He said you suspected that Carlisle was Tanya's father. Can you tell me more?"

His fingers stopped moving against her neck. "How did he know that?"

"I have reason to believe he was at the missile silo."

He shut his eyes, pausing. "Of course he was."

It wasn't an admission of his previous knowledge but an admission of the logic behind his presence. It was an acknowledgement of Jacob's skill. Isabella listened to the clock ticking, waiting, but Edward shared nothing. Everything Isabella had done since Sunday had been to distract herself from thinking about what had happened between Carlisle and Edward, but now, after news of Carlisle's unlikely recovery and the death of the Director of the FBI, somehow, it felt irrelevant. Knowing about his fight and conversation with Carlisle would change little. Her curiosity felt subdued. She almost told Edward she didn't need to know what happened before realizing that sharing delicate information like this, between them, it wasn't about curiosity or justice or even loyalty. Her loyalty to him, like his to her, was unwavering.

It was about trust. Slowly, through countless arguments and hotel rooms, they had built a solid foundation for trust. She didn't want to ask Edward to relive Sunday night, nor would she, but judging by the look on Edward's face, he, too, recognized that some details needed to be aired.

Edward caressed her hair and squeezed her neck, kissing the corner of her lips.

"Can you get your computer?" he asked. "Write the report. I'll tell you."

"But Agent Richardson—"

"…will survive. Marshals Fielder and Wade both wrote one. It's only because of my arm. None had interviews."

She searched his eyes. "You're sure?"

He nodded.

Isabella gave one of the officers an embarrassed smile when she opened the door, but neither entered.

She sat next to Edward with her backpack. When a letter to her brother fell out of her bag, she absent-mindedly remembered that she'd forgotten to wish him a happy birthday. His presence had been so surreal, she'd forgotten everything else.

Isabella opened an empty word document while Edward trailed the lines on his palm with his fingertips. He made eye contact with her.

"Most of this you'll be able to guess, just from the way I look and what my relationship to Carlisle was."

By listening and typing up his story, she discovered that he was right. Much of his journey through the tunnels she could've predicted. He took three uninjured marshals—the first ones he found—with him to search for Carlisle. Two of them were injured on the way there, and Edward himself shot or fatally injured five people on his way to Carlisle. With the third uninjured marshal, Marshal Curtis, Edward managed to break through a door that led to (what Edward assumed to be) Carlisle's main quarters. Nothing but traces of life could be seen. Eyes lingering on every corner and fast food package, Edward assessed the situation, trying to figure out what Carlisle had taught him. Where would he hide?

But of course, two floors were built for a reason. Having found a hatchway, Edward sent Marshal Curtis—against her arguments—for backup.

Carlisle was sitting in the corner of a dim, dirty cave, without a gun. A laptop lay on the floor next to his mattress.

"Couldn't do it alone, could you?"

Unperturbed by his taunting, Edward allowed a discussion to follow. Carlisle's attempts to justify his actions with children didn't stray much from those of William Vahey. Claiming to have been molested twice as a nine-year-old, he was eager to see it as justification for his behavior rather than a reason to seek help. His money laundering and connections with criminals didn't interest Edward. A part of him, however much he wished to suppress it, had hoped that Carlisle would deny the allegations against him. Edward wouldn't have believed him if Carlisle _had_ denied them—but he had wished so deeply for the allegations not to be true he might've convinced himself of the fact.

"It's not only what he did. It's that I saw him as this charming, skilled man full of ideas, so ready to teach and guide me." Running a hand through his hair, Edward paused. "He and my mother were acquaintances. Briefly, rarely, through the years, I would see my mother laughing with him, and I grew this idea that, maybe, they'd had an affair. I knew that Tanya and I were only half-siblings, and I _wanted_ to be Carlisle's son. My own father…"

He trailed off.

It wasn't that he struggled not to cry. Edward had, so far, never done that in Isabella's presence. But he had his giveaway signs of an internal struggle—the way he pressed his lips together until the pink disappeared, the way the center of his palm was, suddenly, the most fascinating object in the world, the way he took a loud breath through his nose, attempting to brush off his reaction.

"How did you know that you were only half-siblings?" Isabella asked gently, neglecting the keyboard.

"Mom told me," he replied. "I was on the verge of figuring it out. I was so desperate not to be my father's son I searched for all the information available: cleft chin, widow's peak, ear lobes. Everything. I was desperate to see traits in myself that didn't exist in my father, so much so that… I didn't see the obvious. Tanya and I, we share our coloring, but cleft chin and dimples? It had Tanya written all over it. My mother confessed, and she never said the name of the man, but… I followed Carlisle's footsteps, because… I don't know. My psychologist told me I was desperate for a father figure, and I think, yes. Maybe. But I was desperate for a _good_ father figure. Someone noble, solid, charming—someone like Carlisle."

Isabella took Edward's hand, preventing him from observing his palm, and pressed a kiss on the back of it. She said nothing.

"He has a cleft chin, you know, and a dimple."

"Did you ask him?"

"I did. I've never seen a sleazier smile."

"You're sure, then?"

"No. To be sure, you'd have to ask my mother, or do a DNA test. But I'll tell Tanya my suspicions. It will have to be her decision."

Isabella pressed her lips together, trying to imagine a life in which you discover that instead of a physically abusive father, the man you wished were your father and who treated you like one turned out to be a pedophile. She could only imagine the rest of the iceberg that Edward didn't feel comfortable showing in a hospital room.

"Anyway," he continued. "I heard what I assumed to be backup arriving at the time, and the nanosecond I took to listen to the footsteps, Carlisle slammed me against the wall, and someone threw an explosive in the cave. An IED, probably. It burnt off the skin in my arm so quickly I barely felt any pain, but through vomiting, I shot Carlisle in the neck. The man who arrived, I don't know who it was, shot my leg in the darkness before I shot him in the stomach. Didn't aim to kill."

"And then?"

"I… I think I blacked out. Next thing I knew, some marshal or an FBI agent was tightening a bandage on my thigh. He mentioned you, I'm sure of it. Must've known how much I wanted to see you one more time."

Isabella offered a sad smile, wrapped up his description of the events on Sunday morning, and shut her laptop. Lying down next to him, she rested her neck against his bicep and hummed against his shoulder. It was a brief, shallow description of his own feelings—actions and reactions—and she didn't expect him to elaborate on the complexity of his emotions. Instead, she slid a hand under his chest, squeezing gently, and shut her eyes. Relieved that she didn't ask for more, Edward brushed his lips against her temple.

"And now, we're free."

She took a breath. "There might be others, though, from the government."

"I know, but… compared to what we've been through, it barely feels like a threat."

She hummed in agreement. "We don't have to stop your family, and we'll have to agree to the double security until…" Casting a glance at the doorway, she hesitated. "You'll know when it happens."

Edward, searching her eyes, nodded.

He cupped her jaw. Two inches of the roots of her hair were dark brown, but the rest was still blonde. She had expressive eyes under thick eyebrows, and three birthmarks formed a perfect row on her left ear. The innocent-looking woman whose features made her appear younger than she was had single-handedly brought dozens of criminals to court. She had supervised others, like her, to reveal evidence, she had helped to prevent Whitlock's framing, and located his former boss. She hadn't pushed for more than he was ready to give, and this girl, this intelligent, beautiful and affectionate girl had married _him._

Edward felt a surge of affection run through him.

Isabella, embarrassed and unused to his scrutiny, lowered her gaze to his mouth. "What?"

Forgetting about his injuries, Edward turned over to press his lips against hers, nudging her mouth open as he slid his uninjured hand under her shirt. She shivered. Running her fingers through his hair, she slid her thigh between his. He felt warm and amazing and firm against her, and when she could feel him against her thigh, she hid her nose in his neck, red-faced and laughing.

"What?"

He seemed dazed but happy, repeating her question, but Isabella shook her head and pressed one last kiss against his lips.

"I'm all for what we're doing, but… you should heal."

Squeezing the back of her neck, he held her against him, quietly, smiling. Settling back on the bed, he pressed her against him just a little bit closer than before. Edward kept stroking her waist under her shirt, and she couldn't help but return his smile.

"So what's the plan for tonight? Got plans with your mouth and body with Phil the hot boxer?"

Isabella laughed. "I've got plans with my mouth and body in _a swimming pool,_ " she replied. "Now that things are the way they are… I'll buy myself a swimsuit and swim until I'm a mermaid. Or, until the pool is closed. Whichever happens first."

The tender affection in his eyes was unmistakeable.

"I'm glad," he said. "You're a different person when you swim."

"How?"

He trailed the lines on her palm before locking eyes with her. "You get this—glint in your eye, and you… you're _lighter_. Swimming becomes you."

" _Becomes_ me?"

He stifled a smile. "Yes."

"Can you swim?"

"If a plane crashed and I had to swim half a mile? Sure. I can swim. But all the way to the island, you'd drown laughing at my technique."

"I would not drown. I would probably save _you_ from drowning."

Smiling, he kissed her. "But I would hunt game for you."

"See, you and me? Teamwork."

His eyes revealed his affection and the truth in her words. Pressing a kiss on his lips, she untangled herself from him. "I'll print out a copy of the report and bring it for you to sign tomorrow."

He squeezed her hand, nodding, and the exhaustion he'd hidden so well started to seep through his mannerism. Turning, he picked up the piece of paper on her chair.

"Whose birthday is it this time?"

"Jacob's, actually."

"You could've just…" he trailed off, starting to hand over her paper before he snapped it forward. He paused.

"It's not your handwriting."

"What?"

"It's…" he looked up, leaving his sentence unfinished. Isabella took the letter from him.

 _Hermanita,_

 _I don't know how much I'll be able to tell you tomorrow — or how much I told you, because if you're reading this, we've seen each other — but I know that my time with you will be limited. I wish I could extend it, but I cannot. It's time for me to leave._

 _Did I convince you? Am I on my way to a police station? Do I still understand you well enough to know that hope, above all else, is the force that drives you? Hope to outbalance father's actions, hope to make people understand that no incentive, decision or action comes out of thin air. Hope to make things right. If dad must be punished for his actions, how can everyone who exploited his money walk away? I'm audacious enough to believe that I still understand you._

 _Did you let me walk away, in spite of how much I've hurt you?_

 _While you were making a real difference in the world, I was staring at a wall in a basement in Pittsburgh. It was a Tuesday in November when a friend of mine locked me in there. I'm not proud of the first few weeks. It was brutal. It was cold, I had seizures. I had night sweats. I hallucinated. For weeks and months, I trembled like a two-year-old after a horror movie, and I wanted nothing but to strangle my friend and force him to inject me with anything. I wasn't picky. I offered him all the money in the world. He refused._

 _You see, wanting to get clean and being willing to go through the torture, the two exist in separate dimensions for someone like me._

 _But the two months gave me time to contemplate._

 _Will I ever find anyone in my life who will understand what we've been through? Remember the nights we sat in the closet in the guest bedroom when dad took care of business? You were five, I think, but you didn't flinch. You didn't cry. Gunshots fired downstairs, and you started to list numbers, three and four digits, and told me to guess the primes. For years, that's how we coped with the gunshots. Just the two of us, my hands on your ears, listing numbers, pretending. Pretending it was all okay._

 _Remember when we found Mr. Rodgers attempting to assault our cleaning lady? You were barely six, but you understood. You knew what I was about when I threw a vase at him, and together, we yelled loud enough to distract him and help Elise run away. Dad shot him on the spot. Was it the first time for you to see him kill? It was for me._

 _For all his faults, dad was an honorable man, and I idolized him for a long time. He was powerful, and he didn't tolerate unjust behavior. You can argue whether his ease at taking a life was justifiable, but you can't say that he didn't have a reason. He always did._

 _I'll never forget your expression the first time you saw me high. You were eight, maybe, and I was almost thirteen. It was January, and I think mom chose to homeschool you in Soto la Marina Municipality while I went to school. My friends offered me marihuana, and pride didn't let me show that I hadn't smoked it before. Nobody knew that the notorious drug lord, our dad, had forbidden us to try. You looked at me, that night, and your face twisted. You looked like I'd left you on the side of the road to fend for yourself._

 _In a way, I did. With all my regrets, I regret most that I wasn't there to protect you when you most needed me._

 _Will I have the strength to stay away from drugs for life? I don't know. Father thought so. He told me, a few years ago, that three things exist in this world that could turn an addict back to life: love, a child, and religion. I have found two of those three, and I don't think he'll be sorry with my choice._

 _I can't tell you about my girlfriend except that she's good for me. She's… she's kind, and beautiful, and normal, and she will not let me stay with her unless I'm clean, and that, above everything, makes me want to try._

 _I hope that what you have with that marshal is real. You deserve someone good. Someone who would understand. Show him this letter if he does not, but before you do that, ask him who bandaged his thigh._

 _He won't remember._

 _The last time I saw you cry was when you were seven years old, Bella. Seven. Since that night, you've never let me see you cry. Shit, you've seen me cry at, what, 25? It's none of my business, but that shit can't be good for you. Let your marshal in if you want something serious with him. He will thank you for it._

 _Go visit Uncle Emmett and Mia with him. They miss you, and your marshal deserves to see you with family._

 _I remember when you broke the Arizona record in individual medley in your age group when you were fourteen. You thought I wasn't there, that I'd grown distant, but I was in the crowd, watching you. I never told you how proud I was of you._

 _I was. I am._

 _You once said that you were sorry that you were dad's favorite, but I hope you're not. I'm not sorry I was mom's. And if nobody ever finds out the lengths to which you went to uncover what you did for this country and its people… I will know. You will do great things with your life, and I'll be watching you. Never doubt that._

 _I'm going to have a daughter, hermanita. I can hardly believe it. Remember when you discovered your middle name and loathed it? You were four. Do you remember how upset you were? I assured you that it was so pretty I would name my firstborn after you. I think it's time I fulfill my promise._

 _We will meet again, one day. Maybe in five years, maybe in ten. But do me a favor and live your life to the fullest. If this is the power you have when you're stressed and not sleeping, imagine what you can do when you're happy. Allow yourself to be happy, Bella. For me and for you, for mom and dad, for your marshal and the little girl I'm about to have._

 _She'll know that she's named after the bravest girl I've ever known._


	20. Home

…

 **Emma Matthews**  
by Anton M.

 **Chapter 20: Home**

…

"Thought you were kidding," Marshal Rickey Thomas said, finding Isabella sitting on the front steps of FBI Agent Stein's house at 5 AM. The sun wouldn't rise for hours.

"Never about this."

Isabella watched the streetlights pass them by as they drove toward a community center pool on Marty Street in Overland Park. It would open at 5:30, and Isabella had every intention of being there when it did.

"I googled you," the marshal said. "Behind all the stories of your family, the danger and the people you'll testify against… you got into the university on a swimming scholarship. Some consider you to be a big olympic hopeful."

Nobody had discussed Isabella's life outside of her drug-dealing family for so long that it stirred something wild and precious inside Isabella.

"I read that you make up for your lack of height with your technique and killer work ethics," he continued.

Not quite knowing how to reply, Isabella said, "I'm sorry I forced you to wake up at the crack of dawn to be here with me."

"When I see you on TV and tell my son I was there when you were training… you're forgiven."

A large elderly man was the only person in the pool when Isabella dove underwater. The cold rush slid underneath and above her, and silence, interrupted by the occasional ripple of water, surrounded her. She felt exhilarated, relaxed, and in awe of her freedom.

It was a pipe dream, what Marshal Thomas had said. Statistics argued against her. To swim on a truly elite, international scale, height mattered, and she knew female Olympic finalists to be, on average, 5'10''. While not necessarily short on the ground, Isabella was a dwarf in the swimming world with her 5'5''.

No, she would probably never make it to the Olympics, but it didn't matter. She didn't do it for praise. She never had. Elite swimmers timed their physical fitness according to competitions. Isabella did not. Her individual medley times, like her backstroke and butterfly, were uncommonly consistent throughout the year. She _needed_ swimming. She didn't revolve her life around swimming practices to be the best at competitions, nor did she really care about beating other girls. Being the best had made sure she was independent of her father's money in college, but she was driven to the pool by sheer love for the sport. Swimming offered her unparalleled freedom, time to think, to breathe, to forget and remember.

Nobody could take that away from her.

Stretching her body to her full height underwater, Isabella felt a slight jerk in her left shoulder when she held out her arm. But repeating the movement, over and over again, the twitch diminished, and after twenty laps in the pool, it vanished entirely. She had to relearn the movements of her left arm because of the surgery, but she didn't mind a little extra practice.

In the overwhelming awe of her freedom, it dawned on Isabella that she could, for the first time since the previous year, plan for the somewhat distant future, for the summer and fall after the trials were over. She could, if she wanted to, dedicate herself to swimming, finish her degree or find a job, or do all three. She could, after a long day of lectures, seminars and swimming, walk home, wrap her arms around Edward and complain about a phenomenally dull day. Could she? Was this where she was heading, with Edward? The thought of domestic boredom with her husband made her smile.

Was this mess of a life finally, truly over? Having bodyguards for a while would be inevitable. The people for whom her involvement was personal, Carlisle and Jacob (and maybe the FBI Director Pasquier), were out of her radar, but there would be ex-judges and congressmen who might want to cause her harm. Yet, having gone through what she had, Isabella felt invincible. Whatever life would have in store for her, she could handle it.

Edward put down his fork at the sight of his wife. Her eyes twinkled and her hair was, once again, dark brown. She sat beside him, sharing a conspiratory smile, saying nothing as she handed Edward his report. He signed it before reaching out to touch her chic haircut, sharp and slightly shorter behind her neck. Both the color and the cut suited her.

"You're beautiful."

She smiled. "I brought you some Colin Dexter."

"What did I do to deserve you?"

"Bribe your family not to hate me, hopefully."

He cupped her jaw, smiling. "Just be yourself."

"You want me to sit in the corner and program?"

Shaking his head, chuckling, Edward didn't reply. He knew that she understood what he meant.

"I burnt the letter," she said, and their eyes locked. Having read it, Isabella had sat on the one side of Edward's hips, knees curled against his chest and face buried in his neck. Although she seemed embarrassed to be emotional around him, Edward was, more than ever, grateful that she had already started to let him in. So he held her, asking nothing, saying nothing, stroking her back. The letter was a bittersweet goodbye for her, and he found no words that wouldn't diminish the importance of the moment. So, knowing that they both had things to learn about and from each other, he remained silent.

A nurse, shaking his head at the sight, politely ordered Isabella to step away so that he could take care of Edward's burn wound.

Two hours after Isabella returned from swimming, a wheelchair rolled in Edward's room. Immaculately clad in dress pants and a button-down shirt, the woman headed straight for her son. Tanya followed, her nose covered by freckles and arms reddish from sunburn. Hipster-looking in his flannel shirt and suspenders, Tyler decided to stand by the wall, and Isabella, a fellow outsider to the scene, shook hands with him.

"All good?"

Tanya, taking Isabella's place by the bed, smiled brightly at them both, motioning for them to step closer, but neither did.

"All good," Tyler answered, hands in his pockets, forearms covered by tattoos. The look he gave her implied that their story, much like hers, was too long and complex to cover it in shallow small talk. Together, they observed the family reunion.

"You're a troublesome son to have, Anthony," Edward's mother said, mouth pressed in a tight line as she squeezed his hand.

"Guilty as charged."

"Come on, guys, why are you over there?" Tanya asked, smiling. "Scared of my big brother, Tyler?"

Introductions were made. The men shook hands, Tanya enveloped Isabella in a hug, complimenting her hair, and Edward's mother observed her son's interaction with the young lady who held her hand out to her.

"My god, you can't be more than eighteen!"

"I'm 23 years old, ma'am."

Looking displeased, the woman gave her a firm handshake. Isabella, who was determined not to be intimidated, returned the squeeze.

Edward satisfied their inquiries about his injuries, but he couldn't show the cobweb-looking meshed graft on his arm. It had been surrounded by a beige bandage-like protection until his guests left to keep the wound sterile. Regardless, his thighs, chest and blue face incited enough curiosity without adding his arm to the mix.

Isabella found Edward's mother eyeing her while Edward talked, until Esme felt she couldn't keep her questions to herself.

"Are you pregnant?"

"Mom!" both siblings exclaimed.

"I am not."

"Anthony says that you are a citizen of the United States."

Isabella felt like she'd stepped into an interrogation room.

"I am, ma'am."

"Did you marry for money?"

"Mom!" Edward, sitting up with some struggle, wrapped his uninjured arm around his wife. "Cut it out. She could buy a small country if she wanted to."

Narrowing her eyes, Edward's mother scrutinized her from her jeans to her hoodie.

"Does Anthony provide access to information valuable to you?"

"I assure you, ma'am, if access to documents is what I wanted, I'd have the means and the skill to get it without anyone's help."

It felt arrogant to say the words even if it was the truth, but she couldn't help but be slightly put off by Edward's mother's comments.

"Knock it off, mom."

"I'm only trying to understand," Esme replied, face impassive and difficult for Isabella to decipher. "Kate tried so hard to get you to marry. You were together for four years, and you kept refusing. And now, you spend a month together with this girl, and suddenly, your mind is changed. What's different this time?"

"Mom," Tanya said, stifling a smile as she shook her head. "Mom, _look_ _at them_. They _fell in love_. Have you ever seen Anthony so happy? Me neither."

Edward sent his sister a grateful smile.

"But you're so—"

Isabella, waiting to hear which characteristics she lacked, saw Edward's mother glance up and down her clothes. Letting out a laugh, Tanya walked around the bed to ruffle her mother's hair and press a kiss on top of it.

"You're such a snob, mom," she said. "Is there a cafeteria here? 'cause I'm starving."

"There's one on the first floor," Isabella replied, smiling at her without moving from her spot. Understanding the unspoken words, Tyler, too, prepared to leave.

"Do you want anything? We'll be back in ten." At her denial, Tanya started pushing her mother out of the room, addressing her. "Why are you so rude, mom? I think she's rather fascinating. She's so good for Anthony, and I can't wait to…"

The moment they were out of earshot (and followed by two marshals), Edward pressed his chin against Isabella's shoulder and groaned. "I'm so sorry."

"It's okay," she replied, nuzzling his hair. "But if I'd known that classy clothes are needed for her approval, I would've bought myself a ballgown."

Carlisle's potential brain damage and the FBI Director's death, interspersed with speculation about Isabella's drugging, colored the headlines. Individually, none of the events could've achieved the coverage they did, but because the incidents had followed the missile silo mission that had forced Marshal Masen and Little Chameleon to reveal their location, attention grew. Marshals Tiana Williams and Rickey Thomas aided Isabella in arriving to and leaving from the hospital, and took turns in accompanying her to the pool. They put extraordinary detail into surveilling areas where she was exposed to potential harm, more so perhaps because they hadn't been able to prevent her brother's associates from entering the hospital. Unable to reveal that her brother was the least of her worries, Isabella couldn't stop them. Supervisory Deputy Marshal James Livingston sat down with Isabella and Edward to discuss relocating the two marshals, but the couple was against it. Even if they found bodyguards capable of outwitting her brother, it wouldn't matter.

Doctor Clarke, ashamed of putting Isabella in danger, asked if Edward preferred she be replaced by another doctor. Unsatisfied with her lack of imagination in potential danger but unwilling to place the blame, Edward let her stay. Isabella spent an evening attempting to vindicate Dr. Clarke in Edward's eyes, but, used to being surrounded by men and women who put their lives on the line for others, Edward was a tough nut to crack.

His family, protected by police officers and marshals, spent a week in Kansas City. Isabella had no intention of dressing up to impress Edward's mother and continued to wear her comfy jeans and sweatshirts. She played cards with Tanya, Tyler, and Edward on top of her husband's blanket, cozied up to Edward on evenings when she wasn't swimming, and got to know his family. Tanya, put-together and smiling, acted as the peacekeeper of any potential conflict. Tyler, concise and practical, seemed annoyed by small talk until Isabella found out that hospitals made him queazy. After Edward made sure Tyler knew that his presence was welcome but not needed, Tyler spent his days sending job applications or getting to know the city.

Isabella couldn't define Esme. She sat, lips pursed whenever Isabella made jokes, and squinted at the couple as if sun got in her eye when Edward nuzzled Isabella's hair or kissed her nose. Isabella treated her as if she failed to notice that the woman didn't consider her worthy of her son.

On Friday noon, one of Tanya's friends had a long layover in Kansas City, so Tanya rushed out of the hospital, ready to spend the day window-shopping. Isabella declined, and Tyler, too, chose to scan hardware stores instead of joining his girlfriend. And so, Isabella found herself having lunch with Edward's mother without a pollyanna buffer between them. She'd finished her meal while Esme wasn't even done with one third of hers. Esme chewed meticulously, as if counting her bites, oblivious to or ignoring the silence between them.

"I don't care that you don't like me," Isabella said.

Esme finished chewing, locking eyes with her. She didn't take another bite.

"I've been disliked or ignored by many people who were too scared or gullible to approach me, given what's known about my family. You're not the first person not to approve of me and you certainly won't be the last. Your disapproval doesn't intimidate me. If Edward doesn't find your dislike of me reason enough to stop our relationship, neither will I. There was a time in my life when being approved of was important to me, and I won't lie—it would've been nice to know that you don't mind our relationship. He loves you, and you seem like a remarkable woman with the challenges you've faced. But behaving as you are will not drive me away."

Edward's mother let go of her fork.

"Why does Anthony let you call him Edward?" she asked.

"It's his name."

"He hasn't let anyone call him that since he was ten. He threw a fit every time the teachers didn't listen to him."

Esme squeezed her hands together.

"You're very lively."

The trait revealed itself whenever Isabella could relax by swimming, and boiled down when she could not.

"You're also remarkably young."

"Can you suggest a potion to cure me of this malady?"

Esme's mouth twitched.

"Anthony likes you a great deal."

Whatever Edward felt for her, Isabella hoped that it went beyond _liking_ her _a great deal_.

"But you're too young to understand what he's been through. Age has given him experience that you lack."

Isabella pressed her lips together not to insult her mother-in-law.

"I have many flaws, but lack of life experience is certainly not one of them, so if that's your argument against my character, it's a poor one."

A blush rose on Esme's cheeks, but she did not argue.

"You must think I'm a bad mother."

"I think nothing of the kind."

Esme raised her eyebrows, leaning back. "He hasn't told you about his father?"

"He has. I've kept myself from judging you, but with all due respect, you're making it difficult."

"How?"

"You're assuming things about me based on my age."

Esme hesitated.

"If you got married for reasons other than emotional, Anthony will stay with you out of loyalty. But if that's the case, don't let him. Don't let him sacrifice his happiness."

Her apparent indifference cracked as she pushed her pasta to the side of the plate, licking her lips. She revealed a vulnerable, sad smile, and Isabella felt her witty comebacks dissolve.

"I will not."

Esme nodded, once, and returned to eating. The next time Isabella saw her, Esme's edges were softer and she didn't exclude Isabella from her conversations, neither did she ignore her. Small talk, discussions, and observing the couple further smoothened their relationship until, on Saturday, Esme smiled at her in the morning when Isabella made a sarcastic comment about media attention. Slowly but surely, their relationship was thawing.

On Saturday afternoon, Isabella walked in on Edward and Tanya talking in hushed voices. Tanya had curled up on the uncomfortable plastic chair, staring at a spot on the floor. Two pairs of eyes looked up when Isabella stopped on the doorway.

"I'm sorry, I— didn't mean to interrupt. I'll go."

"No, s'okay," Tanya said, glancing away to hide her paleness. "S'okay."

She clutched her handbag on her lap, turning her eyes to Edward. "Don't go searching for answers without me, either. I don't want to know."

Her shock shined through the tight, ghostly smile she showed her brother. Isabella hovered in the doorway, unsure if her presence was welcome while Tanya prepared to leave.

"Do you wish I hadn't told you?"

Tanya stood up, squeezing her brother's wrist before she wrapped arms around herself. "No. Thanks, Anthony."

She pressed her lips in a faint smile as she passed Isabella. When Tanya had left, Isabella sat on Edward's bedside.

"She doesn't want to know," he said.

"Would you?"

"I think not knowing would be worse. But it's her decision."

Isabella rubbed her thumb against the back of his hand. "Your mother asked me why you let me call you Edward." Her voice grew quiet. "Why do you?"

"What do you think?"

"It's your father's name."

"Yes."

"And you hate it."

"Yes."

"Why, then?"

Edward took hold of her wrist and drew patterns on the inside of her palm before he squeezed her hand. "You make it okay. When you use it, I feel like someone else. Someone better."

Isabella brushed back his hair before pressing her lips against his.

On Monday, Edward was reading a book and absent-mindedly playing with Isabella's fingers (she was typing on her laptop with the other hand) when Tanya rushed into the room.

"Turn on the TV."

"— _smashed and burnt at the bottom of a cliff in Catorce mountain range in the state of San Luis Potosí in Mexico. The truck is believed to have swerved due to ice on the road, and the Nissan could only be identified from the DNA of Jacob Swan and an unknown individual, both seen leaving Tolentino's bar in the local village of Real de Catorce. Although no bodies have been recovered, Mexican authorities confirm that he could not have survived colliding with a 25 thousand pound truck or the following explosion and freefall to the bottom of the valley. The implications of the accident are clear. Does this mean that Isabella Swan, now better known as Little Chameleon, can—"_

Isabella turned off the TV as two pairs of eyes observed her.

"I—I'm sorry," Tanya said, eyes wide. "I wasn't sure if… should I offer my condolences or congratulate you?"

Digesting the information she had heard with the knowledge that she had, Isabella stared at the blanket, unwilling to show the peace in her eyes.

"Both, perhaps."

Tanya squeezed her in a hug before she left.

"Is this 'you'll know when it happens'?"

When she kissed his wrist and hummed, no longer able to hold back her smile, Edward knew. She didn't have to elaborate. Finally, the double security could be dismissed, and they might be able to start their own lives without the media fiasco she was so determined to ignore.

When Edward's family headed back to Scranton, Pennsylvania the following Tuesday, Isabella felt like Esme had finally begun to behave normally around her. She didn't feign affection warmer than what she felt, and Isabella could appreciate her honesty. She caught Tanya observing her mother, head tilted on the side, thoughts far away, but if she was pondering the possibility of Carlisle with Esme, Tanya never said anything. She and Tyler spoke about heading back to New Zealand within a year, but Esme seemed to miss Pennsylvania enough not to express the same wish.

Edward walked almost without a limp, and the side of his face paled to a light greenish-blue. He slept off the few headaches he suffered and felt some discomfort in his chest, but the meshed graft on his arm kept him in the hospital. In spite of healing with expected speed, Dr. Gervasoni wanted to make sure his elbow bent without abnormal tightness and that there were no signs of infection. Waiting for the green light, Isabella spent her time outside the hospital swimming and programming. She logged into her real accounts on Google and Facebook, and spent a few days reading and replying to the onslaught of messages. She logged into her numerous bank accounts and wrote letters to the Forensic Science program director, asking what her official status was at the university. If she had to apply for the Master's program again, she'd do it.

Being able to act as herself under her real name felt like a new beginning.

On Tuesday, March 1, three weeks and two days after being admitted to the hospital, Edward was discharged. He didn't limp. The skin over his burn wound had turned pink, and it was covered by darker spots. The healing process would take months and years, but infection was unlikely at this point. A faint, blue tinge could be seen around his temple from a certain angle, but he felt fine. He'd started to grow restless in the hospital with nothing meaningful to occupy his time.

They flew to Baltimore on the same evening he was discharged.

Walking in the open hallways of the Baltimore-Washington Airport felt nostalgic. Some people recognized them, but those who did didn't inspire paranoia or fear in Isabella. Delayed flights were announced in the speakers, people rushed by, and the freedom of being in public as herself with her own marshal felt amazing. Four months ago, right here, they had looked much the same at a glance. Isabella, in a hoodie, holding the hand of a serious-looking marshal, wearing backpacks and wedding bands. From the outside, not much had changed. Hair-color, hair-length, injuries—little details.

Inwardly, everything had changed.

Four months ago, all she'd wanted was to seek justice and accept that serving it would probably get her killed. She had feared sleep as much as she desired it, and she wouldn't have hesitated to commit perjury if the situation required. Four months ago, she'd bid farewell to everyone she knew in the knowledge that she would probably never see her friends again, nor should she let herself get emotionally attached to anyone. She hadn't dreamed of marrying or falling in love, but now, the wedding rings they wore were not for show. They were legally binding.

Out of habit, Edward scanned the area for any threats as they walked to catch a cab. He pulled her against him to avoid an oncoming bicycle. Isabella scratched his scruff, and his hair blew in the wind. It was getting dark.

"We're going home," she said, barely-contained happiness in her voice. Edward adjusted his backpack before squeezing her arms and pulling her in a hug. A rush of warmth and affection ran through her, and she couldn't resist a smile.

"We're going home," he repeated, burying his nose in her hair as he held her.

Edward lived in a row house in the Abell area in north-central Baltimore. A small stairway led to a terrace and a two-floor apartment with white walls and hard-wood floors. The living room had an office corner and was semi-attached to the kitchen. The stairs led to two bedrooms and a bathroom upstairs, and Isabella marveled at the style, minimal items with few colors and fewer pictures.

The hum of refrigerator broke the silence.

Edward adjusted his backpack. "I'll put away the groceries and make some dinner." He ran his fingers through Isabella's hair before kissing her. The simple, domestic gesture warmed her.

Removing her shoes, she said, "I'll take a look around."

Edward, halfway to the kitchen, turned around. "Do you want a tour?"

"No, I'll… I'll have a look in my own speed."

She ran her fingers over the spines of books that were stacked on the side of the living room wall. A single giant cactus grew in front of the window. The rooms were dusty and felt unused, but Edward's place felt homey in spite of the minimalist style. Upstairs, a photograph of a martial artist covered half a wall in Edward's bedroom. A mattress was lifted against a wall in the other bedroom, and a punching bag hung in the corner. The room was otherwise empty, perhaps to save space for krav maga. Strangely, Isabella felt her throat close up. She had no reason to cry, none at all.

She'd made it. _They'd_ made it.

A dried eucalyptus hung from the ceiling close to the shower head. Isabella, whose mother, too, had put eucalypti in the bathroom, sat on the toilet seat as she stared. Unbidden tears filled her eyes, and her reaction made her huff. A thousand and one things reminded her of her family every single day, and she didn't weep. Why was she crying today?

Determined to get over herself, she dug out her toothbrush from her backpack and set it next to Edward's, but the sight made tears spill over. Beyond annoyed that she couldn't understand or control her reaction, she wiped away her tears when a knock echoed in the bathroom. Edward leaned against the doorway.

"Rice or pasta?"

Sniffing once, Isabella turned away her face.

"Rice is good."

Edward, pushing back his glasses, stepped in the bathroom and crouched in front of her. His warm fingertips brushed against her cheek before he tangled his fingers in her hair, gently nudging her head. Isabella avoided eye contact.

"Baby," he said, brushing tears away. "My apartment is not _that_ ugly."

A smile broke through her tears. Edward crushed her against him, dropping her backpack in his room before he sat on his bed, switched on the bedside lamp and pulled her sideways on his lap. She hid her face against his neck, reveling in his smell and strength and the scratchiness of his scruff, wrapping her arms around him.

"What's wrong?" he whispered, breath ghosting over her ear.

"Your home is _beautiful_."

" _Our_ home. It's ours. Did you conveniently forget that it'll be yours if anything happens to me?"

Her tears fell harder, but her chest shook as she laughed. "I'm sorry. I'm being stupid. I don't know what's wrong with me."

"It's okay." He held her tighter. "You left the door open for a reason."

Isabella pressed her lips against his skin. She felt loved. She felt cherished and needed. "I haven't belonged anywhere in years. But we haven't really spoken about me living here. I can sleep on the mattress in the other room, if you want. Or I can find another place. I don't want you to feel like I have to live here by default, even if we're trying this out for real."

"You're full of shit today," Edward replied, withdrawing enough to cup her jaw with both hands. When his thumbs ran across her lower lip, gently, she felt like she could melt into him. "I want you right here, okay? Right here." He rested his forehead against hers. "Do you understand?"

Isabella threw herself in Edward's arms with such force that they both fell on the bed. Water could be heard boiling downstairs, but neither got up. They'd stolen moments for themselves in the hospital, but the presence of nurses and the outside world had always hung in the back of their minds. Not anymore.

Edward's hand travelled upwards underneath her shirt until he flattened his palm on her back, pulling her closer. She felt feminine and cherished as he pressed her against his chest and wrapped himself around her. His strength made her feel tingly and electrified, like the hum of a power line.

Gently, she glided her fingertips over the coarse area of his skin graft, from wrist to shoulder. He waited, observing the ugly, uneven skin of his arm, but when she pressed her lips against the roughness, the love in her eyes nearly brought him to his knees. Their breaths mixed, charged and personal, and he pressed his mouth against hers, once, twice, desperate to feel her closer, deeper, better. If he weren't pinning her against the bed, she felt like she might've flown away. He nibbled, licked and sucked until she felt breathless and itchy from his scruff. Stroking the back of his neck, she slid her thigh between his, but that, finally, woke him up. Flushed and with his glasses askew, Edward hovered above her cheek, panting.

"Rice. I meant to boil rice."

She stroked the side of his neck, eyes sparkling as she smiled.

"Party pooper."

Grinning and pressing one final kiss against her lips, he disentangled himself from her.

It was dark outside. An old episode of _Forensic Files_ ran in the background as they sat on the couch, eating dinner. Edward sorted out the letters he'd received while making phone calls, and Isabella agreed to a meeting with the Forensic Science program director at the University of Baltimore on Friday. Finished with food, she wrapped arms around her knees and rested her head against the back of the couch. She felt at peace. When Edward was done, Isabella took his plate and left to do the dishes.

Edward's refrigerator, unlike the rest of his apartment, was stacked with photos of his mother and sister, of his colleagues, of himself learning and teaching krav maga. But in the center, there was a new photograph of herself and Edward on their wedding day. His eyes were alight with humor as he seemed to be whispering against her ear, and Isabella eyed their hands, smiling, incredulous but happy. It had been an unorthodox wedding during a tense time, but they both looked so content it was hard to believe they hadn't been in love at the time.

"Three months ago from today," Edward said, wrapping arms around Isabella from behind. Leaning her back against his chest, she gaped, turning her head.

"You're right. I completely forgot."

"I know you did."

"Where did you get that picture?"

"Jack told me he'd send it here, remember? It was waiting." Uncurling her fingers, he pressed cold metal in it. "So you would have no doubts about whose home this is."

Isabella twisted in his arms to see his eyes. He had a heartwarming ability to be romantic without flowery words, and she loved him for it.

"Thank you." She kissed the corner of his lips.

"I know what you did with your money."

Edward regarded her, face impassive. She didn't move. While she preferred not to advertise her transactions, his knowledge didn't surprise her. He had observed the media far closer than she had, and while her anonymous shenanigans weren't breaking news, they had appeared on a few news websites. They would pop up more when the extent of her actions was revealed.

She had donated most of her money to research—research focusing on pancreatic cancer, muscle dystrophies, stem cells, vaccines in development against malaria and HIV. She had given money to drug rehabilitation centers, hospitals, schools, and she knew she was creating non-existent companies and charities to throw carefully split eight and nine digit numbers in the Mariana Trench. She would never see the money again. It wasn't an investment—or if it was, it was an investment in mankind—and she wasn't doing it for Edward to believe the best of her.

The week following her father's death, she had done her own research, asking around, writing letters, trying to grasp whose goals were underfunded but worthy of attention. She found several. In a twisted sense of irony, she also poured money in a company developing security software and storage facilities to protect medical data. It was tempting to give money to software developers because she understood their cause. She would've given more. But, as it was, she chose places she knew and causes she believed to create something worthy in the world, and if her father did turn over in his grave because of what she was doing to his legacy, it better be because he didn't agree with her choice of research group.

"Do you think you could teach me krav maga again in the mornings?" Isabella asked, attempting to change the subject. "We can take it slow."

Unperturbed by her words, Edward brushed his thumb over her eyebrow, keeping eye contact. She sighed, sensing an argument regarding the source of the money she'd freely thrown away.

"Do you demand they have the right to know where the money is coming from?" Isabella asked.

"No," he said, as if he'd never thought otherwise (which, Isabella was sure, he had). He tilted his head on the side, wearing the same indecipherable expression, observing her in silence. Then, his expression broke, and he rested his forehead against hers, eyeing her with quiet reverence. She didn't know whether to be awed or humbled by his expression, but she certainly didn't want him to think that she was doing this to impress him.

She was doing it for her father—he must see that. And nobody could ever know, or it would incite ethical and moral debates.

"Just when I think I know you." Edward tucked her hair behind her ear, and his awe made her feel shy, defensive, admired.

"I don't mind that you know, but… I didn't do it so that you'd think I'm this embodiment of generosity. I'm not. I'm being selfish. I remember what I said, and I'm sure you'll remind me, but I cannot use my father's money. I cannot. And I cannot make his life right after he's gone. He killed many and damaged more. He did things that I could never mend, not with anything. So, you see, I need to do this for my sanity, for—"

Edward silenced her with a kiss, pulling her against him. Sliding his warm palms underneath her shirt, he gasped against her mouth and bit her lip. Her butt hit the kitchen counter before he lifted her on top of it. His skin tingled from the contact with her skin, and her eyes twinkled. She hummed, stroking his neck when he pulled back just enough to graze her cheek with his lips. Her wide eyes were tender and sincere, her lips pink and inviting as she smiled against his lips.

"You're the most remarkable woman I've ever met," he whispered.

She squeezed his sides before tugging off his T-shirt. Her palm travelled over his chest, and he waited as she stroked his muscles and skin, hiding her fingers in his chest hair. She rubbed the pale protrusion where a bullet had entered years ago and pressed a tender kiss on top of it. Her palms trailed upwards before she cupped his neck and rubbed her lips against his jawline, peppering kisses closer to his mouth. Groaning, he started pulling off her T-shirt, but she withdrew.

"I'm… I'm sorry. I, uh…"

Embarrassed, Isabella gripped his forearms, and Edward, understanding her hesitation, took a deep breath, willing himself to be patient.

"It's okay to tell me that I'm pushing too hard."

"No!"

She took his hands and placed them firmly on her waist.

"What is it, then?"

"I, uh." She pulled her lips in her mouth, avoiding his eyes as she played with the hair on his chest.

"I know you're not on your period, so it's not that."

"How do you know that?"

"I have a sister and a mother and I've dated. I pay attention."

"Really?" she challenged. "When's my period, then?"

"It's the second week of the month, but gradually moves forward. Soon, it'll be at the beginning of the month."

She gaped a bit. "I, uh. Should I be flattered?"

"Isabella," Edward said, voice calm and patient. "Guys your age are maybe too shy to discuss it, or they don't want to know, or they don't have the courage to ask. Or if they do, they don't want to know more. But I'm almost 34. You're not going to hide it from me, neither do I want you to. It's natural. It means you're fertile. It's no reason to blush."

Isabella, to her mortification, did just that. Ashamed of her embarrassment, she kept avoiding his eyes.

"I'm sorry."

"It's okay."

"No, really," she insisted. "I—was 14 going on 15 when I had my first period, and I've never… I've never discussed it with anyone. Not even my mother. I never had friends to have girl nights with, and I… I promise I'll get used to someone knowing. I know it's natural. I'm sorry about my reaction."

Edward tilted her head up by squeezing her neck. "Don't be sorry. It's _okay_ , okay? Now, back to the matter at hand. If I'm not pushing too hard, what is it?"

She pressed her forehead against Edward's chest.

"Are you afraid that I won't like what I see?"

"No," she said, but hesitated. "I mean, I know you've probably been with beautiful women, but I think you kind of know what you're getting with me, and I'm… I feel safe with you. You look at me like you…"

Edward smiled, tucking hair behind her ear.

"Like I want you?"

She nodded, stroking his chest with her fingertips until she hopped off the counter and stepped away. "I'll just go, and, I'll be back in five, okay?"

Edward clutched her wrist, pulling her back in his arms. "No, no, no, no." His voice was calm and determined. "If you're not ready or not in the mood, I understand. If you need to have a shower first, I understand. If you want to watch _How It's Made_ together, that's fine. But you're going to tell me what the problem is."

Isabella grimaced, avoiding his eyes. "I'm wearing that underwear that you hated."

He paused, unsure what she was talking about, but she rushed on. "From our wedding night. You were totally put off by the lingerie I wore, and I should've thrown it away. It's comfortable and I wear it often, but I don't want to bring back bad memories for you so I'll just, go, okay? I'll be back in, like, two minutes."

She let out an uncharacteristic squeak when he picked her up, walked over to the living room and sat down on the couch with her straddling his lap. Edward ran his fingers through her hair. "Baby," he said, softly, taking her hands away from her face and pushing back her hair. She was blushing to the roots of her hair. The silent huff of his breathing was evidence of his laughter. "Aw, baby. Look at me."

Edward surrounded her face with his palms, and his smile, while a bit teasing, was also embarrassed.

"Rejecting you that night had nothing to do with frilly underwear, okay? I was turned on. Of course I was. This beautiful girl I'd married wanted to show off her lingerie, and my reaction was quite predictable. If you'd snuggled close to me that night, I would've seduced you."

Isabella stopped trying to hide her face.

"But you looked so offended!"

Edward, blushing, rested his forehead against hers. "I looked like a guy who hadn't had sex in half a decade who was trying to hide a hard-on and convince himself not to seduce his much younger, much more beautiful wife."

Isabella blinked, trying to process this information with her memory of his behavior.

"You're serious?"

Shaking his head, he chuckled, and his expression told her everything she needed to know. Convulsing with embarrassed laughter, Isabella pressed her nose against his shoulder.

"So you're not going to shrivel up if you see my bra?"

Grinning, Edward squeezed her upper arms, and to prove his point, he attached his mouth and hands to her skin the moment she'd removed her shirt. He squeezed her waist, trailing his thumbs under her breasts, nuzzling the dip between them. She laughed when his glasses bumped against her chest, and Edward gave her a sheepish smile before taking them off.

"It's okay," she said, stopping him. "I like them."

Hesitating, he stared, eyes twinkling. "You really _do_ like me, don't you?"

Nevertheless, he took off his glasses to prevent hurting her with the narrow edges before he continued to nibble and lick the soft skin on the edges of her bra. She got goosebumps when he trailed hot kisses along her neck and hairline. Biting her lower lip, she grinned, and brushed her lips against his. He inhaled a sharp breath, pulling her closer and feeling the warm softness pressed against him. His short scruff, a mere workday old, scratched and tickled her face, and she felt dazed when she withdrew to breathe.

"You're going to give me beard burn if we keep at this."

"Sorry," he whispered, holding his cheek against hers without moving. "It's gotten worse with age. It's quite rough, and if I had the time or energy, I'd shave three times a day. But, honestly, that'll never happen."

"It's okay." She smacked a wet kiss against his cheek and slid her nose along his scruff. "You can buy me some moisturizer."

"I'll buy you all the moisturizer in the world."

He trembled when she shifted in his lap but kept his mouth attached to hers. Sliding his palms up and down her sides, he rubbed her skin until she stopped kissing him and wrapped her arms around his neck, hiding her chin against it. Her breath made the hair in the back of his neck stand up.

"There's something you should know."

She sighed, rubbing and stroking his temples, pushing back the hair that was too short to need assistance. Her eyes were glued to his Adam's apple, but she didn't seem to get a word out.

"You've never had sex," he said, softly, and when she raised her eyes to meet his, he saw the embarrassment and worry in hers.

"But I never told you."

"You didn't have to," he replied.

"I, we, I _would've_ told you, I almost did a few times, but we never got to the point where it was relevant. How did you know?"

"I suspected. You said you hadn't been hugged properly in years, and you have this way of seeking out affection that feels very personal. Very real. And you tend to get awkward when you feel my hard-on. It was the little details. You did say you had a boyfriend, so I wasn't sure, but it started to seem more likely the more I spent time with you."

Isabella hid her blush under her hands. "Is that why you never attempted anything in January?"

"Well, that, and the fact you were semi-conscious most of the month."

She offered a half-smile. "Is this okay with you? Having a family who attracted danger, you either rush into it, or you kind of… have a hard time trusting anyone to do it. I tried. Eric agreed to do it, and we had the date and the hotel and everything set, but I couldn't. The pressure killed me, so we spent the night playing GTA."

"Poor guy."

Isabella nudged him when he grinned.

"I don't want you to act any different around me. I've done a lot with, you know, hands and mouths. I'm not as innocent as I look. And I don't want big plans and candlelight and shit. Just act like you would have, had this situation been different."

"Candlelight and shit," he repeated, laughing. "Isabella, the nature of taking a woman's virginity kind of prevents acting as if you already have that experience."

"It's not going to hurt, if that's what you mean."

"You have—"

"I've had help." Blushing to the roots of her hair, she avoided his eyes. When she did look up, her eyes were vulnerable. "Are you okay being the only guy I ever sleep with?"

It was a promise and a question.

Edward pressed her against him, shifting so that they could lie on their sides. She rested her head against his bicep while he hummed against her ear. Wide, worried eyes locked in his, and he felt like his heart flipped over and expanded in his chest. His wife, beautiful and intelligent and wildly precious, didn't let herself be vulnerable often, so when she did he felt like he was given the world.

"It would've been okay regardless of your history," he said, stroking her cheek. "But I can't deny that there is a deep, caveman part of me who is flattered and feels extraordinarily protective of you, knowing that you want me to be that man. I can't offer you the same, because… we're different. I'm older. But I can offer you my future, if you're okay with that."

"I'm _so_ okay with that."

He played with a strand of her hair. "I've slept with three women in my life. We'll have to discuss this in detail when we prepare for a potential hearing, but that's the gist of it."

They had plenty of time to share the particulars with each other. So when she stroked his neck and chest, scratching his chest hair and pressing kisses against his jaw, Edward groaned and rolled her on her back. Isabella grinned against his cheek.

"I wish it could be tonight."

"It can be."

"No," she replied. "Dr. Clarke said you shouldn't engage in rigorous activity for three more weeks."

"One week," he corrected.

"Three weeks," she argued. "She said three."

"Fine." He pretended to be offended. "Have it your way, then."

Shifting, he attempted to move away and appeared to focus on TV, but the half-smile and twinkle in his eye revealed his mischief. When Isabella ran her palm over his jaw, drawing his attention, he cracked. Basking in her touch, he let his hands roam over any patch of skin available to him. His kisses warmed her face as he tugged off her jeans, and she helped him slide off his. They lay stomach to stomach, legs entangled and palms trailing patterns against skin, exploring and basking in each other's touch. Edward pressed his palm flat against her lower stomach, dipping beneath the edge of her panties. She arched.

"This okay?" His breath blew over her ear.

Humming, she nodded, and Edward reveled in her pleasure, memorizing the arch of her back, the sharp inhales, the moans and squirming. Twitching, she clasped his upper arms and pressed her cheek against his shoulder, gasping his name when she came. He watched her in amazement, holding her as she came back to earth.

He kissed her nose. "I'll be right back."

When he returned, he lay behind her and covered them with a thin blanket. Isabella observed him with wide, affectionate eyes.

He squeezed her against him, his elbow bent on her stomach and forearm pressed against the underside of her bra. His right palm fondled her stomach, rubbing maddening little circles on her skin. He breathed against her ear, and he knew she felt his hard-on against her thigh.

"Do you want me to…"

"No," he replied. "Rain check. You're right. There's still some pain. I might refracture something if I orgasm."

"I'm sorry, I shouldn't have let you—"

"Not your fault. There's discomfort some evenings, nothing to do with this." Holding her tighter, he whispered, "Somebody promised to have sex with me 21 times a week. You'd better have your cranberry juice ready when these three weeks are over."

She shook with laughter, turning her head and kissing the closest body part she could reach, his neck. "I promise."

She should've had a shower, but she felt too good to move.

The only light in the room came from the TV, and when _The Beatles Anthology_ miniseries drew Edward's attention, Isabella let him watch it in silence, semi-attentive to the episode. She had always thought that marriage, for her, would be an unrealistic choice because of how strong and independent she felt as an individual. But experiencing these little moments with Edward, making out on the couch, eating while replying to emails and making phone calls, feeling his breath against her temple as he focused on the TV, she cherished it all. Being independent and having someone who cared about her, those two didn't have to exist in mutually exclusive worlds. She could have her programming, and excel in it, and still snuggle against her husband on the couch and complain about her day. She had incessant trust in his abilities and his protection, but she would protect him, too. It was a two-way street.

When the miniseries was replaced by an episode of _Modern Marvels_ they'd both seen, Edward shifted, whispering, "Are you asleep?"

"No," she replied, voice just as quiet. She turned to see his eyes. "Thank you for letting me deal with your mother my own way."

"I figured you'd want to earn her respect without my interference."

Little choices like that, wordless support, their understanding of each other—she couldn't have wished for a stronger relationship. She couldn't have wished to fall in love with a man who understood her so well.

"I hope you don't have much scheduled for the next week. Both the USMS and the FBI want to have full accounts of what happened after we escaped from Wisconsin. We might spend hours being interviewed and writing reports. They will ask us to disclose all details."

"And will we?"

"Within reason."

"Not my cobweb activities, then."

"Not even when they charge you. Only time will tell if they follow that route."

"Is it okay with you that I use your lawyer for everything? I used to have an excellent, high-price lawyer, and I'm sure she'd help me as a favor if I get charged with anything, but… people would raise eyebrows. She's expensive and she can turn black to white. Using her, I would look as if I have something to hide."

"If anything, it will benefit us to have the same man represent us. Use mine. We will need a united front."

"Okay."

He paused. "May I ask… how did you produce your real driving license when we went to Jack? I broke yours in front of you."

"You broke a replica that I had made. I couldn't have let you destroy the real thing."

He chuckled, eyes reflecting the advertisements on TV.

"I spoke to James. I'm going to be charged with manslaughter."

She squeezed his forearms. "Will you be okay?"

"Probably. I'll be subpoenaed soon, but I think I'll admit to everything that happened that night. My lawyer thinks it's a clear case, and the public seems to agree. I can only hope they're right."

"Just say the word, and I'll help you."

He touched her nose with his, brushing her hair, in awe of her. "This feels odd."

"What?"

"Not arguing with you."

Her eyes twinkled. "You just wait. I'm sure we'll have plenty of arguments to entertain you the moment we step out of the house."

"Can't wait," he replied, grinning.

The refrigerator stopped its buzz, pausing, and the TV light flickered on the walls.

"I should shower," she said, sleepy and comfy against his chest.

"Not yet."

He held her tight, his arm cocooning her against him, and she figured, if this was domestic boredom, she couldn't wait to experience it as part of her daily life. She fell asleep. Edward, careful not to wake her, shut off the TV, wrapped her in his thin blanket and walked upstairs with her.

* * *

 **A/N:** It's been such a joy to create this story. Thank you for reading, truly. I hope you haven't misconstrued my lack of author's notes or replies as indifference on my part. I'm thrilled and amazed by your support, your anger at my characters, your insight and kindness, the way you share links to my story on different mediums. I have failed you in many ways, not showing my appreciation enough, not replying enough, not encouraging enough. You are all so, so appreciated. When I feel uncertain in my direction, I read your feedback and it always makes me feel like, maybe, I could be worthy of this story. Thank you for that.

Fanfiction is a medium that has taught me so much, being here as an amateur writer, a reader, an enthusiast and a friend—hopefully.

It's incredible that there are writers out here who are capable of finishing their entire story before posting it. You're amazing, really. You should be proud. Writers, though, are different, and so are our methods. For me, the best part of the dynamic interface of this place means that feedback and criticism are fluid, given and taken as I post the story. This also means that my plot holes will become more apparent to myself as I read your questions, and allows me to fix the future chapters with your criticism in mind rather than never get out of the confines of my rules. (I do _try_ to listen to you.) Thank you, all of you, for allowing me the liberty to write as I find the time and not demand that I switch my style of writing. I hope and wish that my completed stories are encouragement enough for you to see that I do, even through all the mini-hiatuses, aim to get somewhere.

As a reader, what makes me fall in love with stories is not the flowery language (you can probably tell by my relatively pragmatic style) but how a story, a character, a scene or a sentence can change the way I see the world and the people in it, maybe even make me a better person, less judgmental, more open, better at giving and receiving criticism. I couldn't dream of being an author capable of creating a story conveying all that, but you make me feel like I could be, one day, and you're all so, so appreciated.

Thank you,

Pyejammies, Michele, BeachRosey, karo29, DannyGirl1075, Payton79, kneon, teahoney, sujari6, debslmac, jansails, stephi910, Craving2Read, MinaRivera, Capricorn75, tunsia, xxxbulletxxx, exclusiverob, adricastro, tpea1288, Guest (all of you!), sheilagilger, Eeyorefan12, Mistydeb, lrhjan05, bigchill77, Romana973, dnmann, hannaha11104, 2muchtrouble, Vagabonda, TheFadedLight, Paaameeelaaa, NY13, eliza41, Ninkita, samiam77, EVK70, kselzer, Luvntwilight, prettymomma128, Moltz, DICATAKADD, Shamatt0403, cejsmom, majose, DreamerRoad, ldroz, rebadams7, Gillian Aubrey, janiqs, tff000, twifans, Denny52, Leslie E, jule2, snowdrop999, Talk, flyrbrd, amberkey, edwards-debussy, Alice's White Rabbit, Vivian Junior, reachrathi, sarahsauruswrex, archy12, bon123, Missyok, LaPumuckl, Luvvykitty, Nannyjojo, fuz, MK543, Oldenuf2knobeta, volleybabe241, woosh48, Narges, Michmaci, Melany333, sfspeedy, Julia-S77, JulieToo, Tulips3, moosals, NPattz, Fall In Perfection, Santamia, Fleur 50,

and everyone who did not review the last chapter (that's where I got your names from), there are simply not enough hours in a day to go through all chapters' reviews and name you all. You've been extraordinarily polite about my blunders and kindness personified about everything else. You've made me smile, you've made me laugh, you've made me ponder the significance of my choices. Thank you all so much for your kindness. I have learned more from you than I could ever express.

There are three scenes, specifically, which did not make the cut, and if I get them out of my head or fix them (at least the grammar and fluidity), I'll share them with you as outtakes.

There's an epilogue of sorts still on the way. I don't admit to writing an 'epilogue' because I think the lives of my characters should be left to live on in your imaginations, but you can call my next chapter an epilogue. It will look like it, probably.

Thank you, guys. You've been everything I've never dared to ask for.

\- Mav


	21. Epilogue

…

 **Emma Matthews**  
by Anton M.

 **Epilogue**

…

The chlorine-filled air felt humid but not hot when Edward opened the door that led to the pool. A sparse crowd had gathered on the benches, and cheers echoed in response to the finish of men's butterfly stroke race. Isabella stood by the wall, concentrating on her discussion with a tall, blonde woman. Both wore a cap and a swimsuit. Edward walked up to the two marshals standing by the benches, shaking hands with both.

"Gentlemen," he said. "I'll take it from here."

Relieved to get home early, they nodded in acknowledgement before leaving. Edward lowered his prescription sunglasses and sat down, observing the crowd and making phone calls. Some students whispered, casting curious glances at him, some were still in awe, but the regular swimmers barely noticed his presence. Isabella didn't. She stretched her neck, flinging her arms around, shifting her shoulders. It was her turn. Shouts and whistles offered encouragement to each competitor, but none looked up when a gunshot charged them toward water in the freestyle race. Competition was tight. When Isabella touched the wall and saw her time, she hit the water with her fist and grimaced. Half a second later, she hugged Lauren, who had won. The swimmers patted each other on the back, offering words of encouragement while grimacing in disappointment if they were dissatisfied with their personal outcome.

Isabella swam fourth.

After breaststroke, butterfly, and individual medley, in which Isabella swam fifth, eighth (last), and second, respectively, the crowds dispersed and swimmers hung around in groups, eager to discuss their results with each other and the coach. Nodding at the latter, Isabella kept tilting her head against her left shoulder and massaging it with her palm. A four-inch wide collection of blue tattoos covered both of her wrists. She excused herself before walking toward the locker room, and did a double-take next to Edward before her face lit up.

"Want a hug?" she asked, opening her arms. Water dripped on the floor from her body. Edward, who wore one of his best suits, lifted sunglasses on top of his head and narrowed his eyes.

"I can have you arrested for such outrageous behavior."

"Not my fault you're a snob about your clothes."

Edward stood, and Isabella, seeing an opportunity, stepped on a bench, took his neck in her hands and kissed him. Before he could respond, she hopped off the bench.

"See you in a minute!"

His collar was wet.

He waited for her in the hallway, but unlike last October, everyone greeted him. Isabella's friends, other swimmers, even the coach recognized him as a constant, stabilizing force in Isabella's life. Occasionally, a student or a passerby attempted small-talk, eager to hear about their adventures first-hand. Edward remained polite but professional, never revealing anything that hadn't been spread by the media (and usually, not even that). Unfortunately, being tight-lipped increased curiosity, and more than once, students snapped photographs of them. Unable to stop it, both ignored the incidents.

Edward was in the middle of a phone call when Isabella walked out of the changing rooms with three of her friends. She wore heels and a blue dress that reached mid-thigh. The strap of a duffel bag crossed over her chest.

Marshal Nguyen could've been planning a nuclear war in his conversation on the phone, and Edward wouldn't have noticed.

"Yes… Yes… Listen, something urgent just came up. I'll call you back."

He disconnected. Isabella's friends, teasing her about her attire, gave Edward a wave, winked at Isabella, and left them on their own. Clutching the strap of her bag, Isabella sighed in disappointment.

"Urgent? You can't make it tonight?"

Edward, stepping forward, slid his palms up and down her sides and brushed his lips against hers. " _Very_ urgent."

She relaxed, nipping his lower lip before she rubbed her cheek against his, testing. He'd shaved. She couldn't resist a smile.

He squeezed the dip of her waist, eyeing her choice of clothing with appreciation. "Does your husband know how provocatively you're dressed?"

"You're kidding me. The hem of my dress is not even—" Recognizing the twinkle in his eye, she shut up. "I guess he doesn't. I was supposed to meet him at the restaurant."

"Is he the jealous type?"

"He doesn't admit to it… but I have my suspicions."

"Mmm," he said. "It's a good thing I'm really good at staying under the radar. Do you love him?"

His lips touched her hairline, and she felt a bit dizzy in his arms. "Very much."

"That's a shame," he replied, smiling against her forehead. His palms traveled lower on her back, pulling her closer. "But I can be persuasive. How about you ditch your boring husband and spend the night with me?"

Isabella stroked his face with her fingertips. "Well… you _did_ shave twice just for me."

"My colleagues think I'm whipped now that I shave before leaving work."

"You poor man."

Grinning, he pressed her tight against him. Eyes still twinkling but no longer playing games, Edward kissed her hair as they started walking out of the building, his hand resting on the small of her back.

"So how was your day?"

"It was good. Predictable. Didn't win a single race. Yours?"

"Tell you later," he replied. "I thought you didn't care about winning."

"I don't. But I was, on average, two seconds slower than last October."

"That's not too bad."

"Two seconds is a _century_."

"If you say so." He pushed the front door open, and Isabella squinted at the sun. It was 74 degrees outside. "Your shoulder still gives you pain, doesn't it?"

She sighed. "Sometimes, yeah. It did today. But I'll get there."

He kissed said spot and earned a smile. "I know you will."

Edward's eyes lingered on her legs, and he stifled an embarrassed smile when she pressed her nose against his shoulder and laughed. "You are _such_ a guy."

"Guilty," he replied. "Not that I mind, but what made you wear heels to minigolf?"

"Minigolf!" She stepped away from him. "We were supposed to go minigolfing on Friday!"

"Today _is_ Friday."

Having unzipped her bag, she glanced at the date on her phone—Friday, May 20—and groaned. Sending him an apologetic look, she stopped, threw her duffel bag on the pavement and took out her running shoes. But before she could put them on, Edward wrapped his arms around her stomach and pressed his chin against the crook of her neck.

"I'm quite taken with your heels."

Ignoring the way his breath tickled her neck, she replied, "Oh, and you think that since I'm your wife, you have a say in what I wear?"

"Not at all," he replied with a smile in his voice. "But I _did_ shave twice for you today. It's only _quid pro quo_."

Shaking her head in amusement, Isabella put her running shoes back in her bag and leaned against her husband as they continued walking. He held out her arm, trailing his fingertips over the four-inch layer of blue fake tattoos, but said nothing.

"If anyone catches me playing minigolf dressed like this…"

Stroking her waist, he leaned closer. "I guess I'll just have to stay very, _very_ close to you."

He unlocked his car and threw her duffel bag next to his but grabbed her wrist before she got in. Standing on the sidewalk, he pushed his sunglasses on top of his head, cupped her jaw with both hands, and stifled a smile.

"The prosecutor dismissed my case."

He bumped against his car when she jumped in his arms, her legs wrapped around his waist and cheek pressed against his neck, lips ruining his collar and skin with lipstick. Unexpected as her attack was, Edward grinned and held her bottom. She leaned backwards, running fingers through his hair when she smiled so widely kissing became difficult. A second later, she hid her nose in his neck again, cherishing his strength and heartbeat so close to hers.

"Really?" she asked. Barely restrained relief mixed with excitement in her voice. "I thought they were supposed to swear in the jury next Tuesday."

"They were, but… I don't think he had a case strong enough against me, and he was wise enough to recognize that. My deposition and three eye witnesses, including you… there was nothing there for him, and the media attention wouldn't have been worth it."

Isabella, grinning, overwhelmed and fully aware of Edward's reaction to her proximity, slid down his body but kept close. Wide-eyed and happy, she caressed his cheek, loving the smooth skin against her fingertips. She had testified in two court cases and had been subpoenaed for another five, but knowing that they had one less case (the most personal one) to worry about, that meant the world to her.

Edward's arms still surrounded her waist as he took in her amazed expression. He tilted her head back and brushed a slow and toe-curling kiss against her lips. Humming, he slid his mouth to her ear and back again. Trembling and loving his warmth, Isabella squeezed his shoulders. Edward pressed her tight against him, wrapping her in his arms and whispering against her neck.

"Do you think we could skip the minigolf today?"

"Excited to celebrate?"

"Damn right I am."

Too giddy to argue, Isabella wet her lips and blew against his skin. "I've already ruined your collar."

He grinned against her hair. "I know, baby. Let's make sure it was worth it."


	22. Outtake 1: Sapphire

…

 **Emma** **Matthews**  
by Anton M.

 **Outtake #1**

 **Chapter 21: Sapphire  
**

…

Edward warned Isabella that she could bump into his ex when she was visiting their lawyer Brian Young at the Ford & Jenkins law firm. Kate had been a paralegal when they got together and passed her bar exam a year before they broke up. She wanted to become Edward's lawyer the moment she was legally allowed to be one, but Edward wasn't a fan of mixing his job with his personal life and declined the offer.

Isabella, curious, caught a glimpse of her office door, which read, _'C. Caldwell, Junior Partner.'_

The window covered half of the wall and allowed the by-passer to get a hint of people inside, but the door remained closed both times Isabella passed her office during the first week.

But on Thursday, March 10, as Isabella sat behind Mr. Young's office, a woman with light brown hair, dressed in a beige skirt suit, walked in the corridor with an elderly man. Isabella had never seen a picture of Kate, nor had it occurred to her to google the woman. But during the second when their eyes locked, Isabella knew that Kate recognized _her_ , and her pointed chin and enviable, full lips bore a remarkable resemblance to her sister's. She had immaculate make-up, bright red nails, and not a hair out of place. Isabella, painfully aware of her jeans and long-sleeved T-shirt, saw why Edward's mother would approve of Kate.

Should she say hi? Should she introduce herself?

Kate, taking the choice away from her, gave Isabella a nod when she passed before she disappeared behind the corner. A week later, on Friday, when a meeting with her lawyer was thrust upon her, Isabella walked out of his office with a duffel bag on her back. She couldn't deny that she always paid special attention to Kate's office. She was curious. This time, her door was ajar, and long, slender legs hung from her table. A man in a suit stood with his back to the door with hands in his pockets.

"—you two are doing together, there's no way you went from a man so repulsed by the idea of marriage and so eager to have kids to one who got married a month into knowing the girl."

"You should know better than to beat around the bush with me."

She took hold of his tie. "I can give you children, Anthony. That's what you want, isn't it? I can wait until whatever you two are plotting together will sort itself out, and… be with you. There's only so much—"

A middle-aged woman bumped into Isabella. In a daze, she accepted the woman's apology and started walking out of the building. It wasn't in Isabella's nature to jump to conclusions from half a conversation, but Kate made a fair point. They hadn't discussed children after North Carolina, and even that had been hypothetical. How long was Edward willing to wait? If the reason Kate and Edward had broken up had been largely because she didn't want children, and she'd changed her mind, where did that leave them now?

Isabella, bewildered and in a state of mild shock, saw Edward's car in front of the building but decided to take the bus. As worried and jealous as she felt, she trusted Edward not to cheat on her. He wouldn't. But she needed time to think about what she wanted. How soon would she be ready to have children? She wanted children, that much she knew. She craved for that connection, one day. But if Edward asked her to name a date when she'd be ready, she wouldn't know the answer. In three years? Five years? Seven? She'd thought that they'd make that decision, one day, as they cuddled on the couch when life was blissfully boring, and chose to take that leap, together.

Edward hadn't told her he'd be at Ford & Jenkins, but then, she hadn't known her own meeting in advance, either. She couldn't fault him for not telling her he'd be there.

Frustrated with herself, Isabella went to a public pool, chose the deepest lane (people rarely used those), and swam for two hours. She was determined to discuss this issue level-headed and decided to cook quinoa enchilada casserole (the healthy version) for dinner. It was half past six when she stepped in their empty home. Edward had mentioned he'd stay in the office at least until eight today, so she had time. Boiling quinoa and pre-heating the oven, she lit a white candle, set the table, and changed into a white skirt and an orange top.

She felt better at home, where she could remember his eyes on her, his arms around her, his breath against her ear. They'd teased and explored each other, and she had proof that Edward didn't break any ribs when he climaxed, but so far, they'd (barely) held back with the home run. She couldn't wait, and judging by the way he looked at her, neither could he. It hadn't been three full weeks yet, but if Edward felt fine, they wouldn't be able to hold back that long.

It was half to eight when the casserole was ready. Opening a cupboard in search of oregano, Isabella stopped dead on her tracks. A blue ring box sat behind a pack of walnuts, with a receipt tucked under it. Staring, Isabella hesitated. It would make perfect sense for Edward to hide anything he needed in the kitchen—it was his world, not hers, and she'd barely cooked since coming here. She wasn't a big baker.

Why would he buy a ring? They were already married. Wasn't her engagement ring fancy enough for him?

With a pounding heart, she glanced at the door and read the receipt. The purchase had been made on March 18, at 5:32 PM. Two hours ago, today. A conversation with Kate had driven him to a decision, whatever that was, and now Isabella couldn't resist gripping the box. She weighed it, dizzy with disbelief, and opened the top.

A dark blue gemstone (topaz? sapphire? she knew nothing about gemstones) was surrounded by twisted ornaments in silver. The elegance caught her by surprise, and, still aware of any sounds from the hallway, she took the ring from its box. It sparkled in the candlelight. A carving caught her attention, and she turned on the lights to read.

 _Edward & Catherine_

No. No, it couldn't be. She blinked, walking straight under the ceiling lamp, but the words remained. Pressing her lips together and taking deep, uneven breaths, Isabella sat on the kitchen table, still holding the ring. It couldn't be. How could it be? She bit her lip, almost to the point of bleeding, willing to wake up, but nothing happened. The candle flickered.

It was not possible. Edward would tell her if he wanted out, right? Or was he about to tell her, today? He had an engagement ring for his ex girlfriend. Clearly, they were about to have a life-changing conversation.

She had enough sense to remember to turn off the oven, but when she returned to sit on the kitchen table, pushing away her plate and lifting her legs on a chair, the gemstone blurred in her hands. Her throat felt tight, and she pushed away her tears as she willed Catherine's name to disappear and be replaced by hers. Nothing happened.

What had Kate told him that had changed his mind? Was it the issue of kids? Was it anything about her that Kate pointed out that he hadn't seen before? Did Kate remind him of the good times and love they'd shared? What happened, in her office, to change his mind so completely that he went and bought a ring for her?

Was it a promise ring? Would Edward suggest that they stay together a few months or years, until it felt safe to divorce quietly? Did he feel so little for her that he wouldn't even give her a chance to fight for his love?

Isabella, closing her eyes, hunched over the ring. Edward had never told her that he loved her. The words _I love you_ had never left his lips. Paul had said it, his sister had said it, maybe even James, but never Edward. So, technically, he'd never lied to her. She felt it was implied, and she'd grown to love him so strongly she'd thought that, maybe, he was just the kind of guy who didn't say the words. Maybe she didn't need him to say them.

But maybe she just wasn't the woman he wanted to say those words to. He was attracted to her, and he wanted to have sex with her, but he didn't love her. Clearly, not like that, and certainly not long-term. He had other plans, now, and was probably preparing to have this conversation with her at this moment.

With trembling lips and throat so tight she could barely breathe, Isabella slid the ring in her finger. She knew she shouldn't, but she couldn't help it. She wanted his love. She was desperate to feel his love. She wanted to imagine that it was for her, this beautiful ring with a beautiful blue stone.

As if she needed more confirmation about the fact that it wasn't for her, the ring didn't fit. It barely slid over her knuckle, and she had to twist and turn her skin to get it off. Kate must've had delicate, slender fingers to slide this ring in.

She pushed the ring back in its padding but left the ring box open. It taunted her. Where did she go wrong? Why had Edward not said anything? It was her, pushing them to be together, it was her, announcing her love for him, it was her, moving in with him. It was her, crying in front of him. He'd seen Jacob's letter, telling her to open up to Edward. Did he feel he would be responsible for anything she might do if he admitted that he didn't love her, and never had? She shouldn't have cried in front of him. She shouldn't have let him in. In doing so, she'd shown her weakness and reminded him of her family history. Did he feel like she might end herself when she found out that he appreciated her company only as a friend? As angry and betrayed as she felt, Isabella knew that Edward would agree to stay friends with her, later.

She only hoped that he understood when she asked him to wait until she felt okay with the idea of him and Kate, together. Even if he'd never fallen for her, Isabella had revealed enough of her own feelings to know that Edward, being the good man he was, would understand her need for time. In a year or two, she could meet him for coffee to discuss life and work with him. She couldn't imagine seeing Kate with him, not yet, or his children. The thought of him having children with anyone but her, it hurt too much to think about, but perhaps… with time. In ten years, she could smile at his children and joke with Edward about the fake marriage they'd had. She would learn to hide her pain from him again, the way she'd hidden it from everyone else since she was seven.

He was always a better actor than her. How desperate and clingy had she seemed, asking him to be the only guy she'd ever sleep with? Had she pushed him to the end of his rope of reasons why they shouldn't sleep together? Had he postponed being physical with her because he knew it would be her first time, and he didn't want her to feel betrayed, down the road?

When Esme had called, two days ago, she had seemed uncommonly happy to speak to Isabella. Had she known? Had it been a longer conversation than just today? If Edward had confided in his mother, it made perfect sense for Esme to be cordial to her. Isabella would be out of the picture so soon that Esme had no reason to hate her anymore. She'd be gone. Pack up her backpack and leave Edward to be with the woman he loved. Just like that.

Where would she go?

She didn't have many choices. Hotels, of course, temporarily. Eric would let her stay on his couch. Lauren, maybe, even though they hadn't known each other for long. But then what? Edward would probably feel guilty for leading her on, and want to help her, but she needed time away from him.

Spousal privilege would still protect her, but they would have to try extra hard, convincing everyone that it had been real. They would, at one point, still have to go over what they could be asked if she was charged and their short marriage was attacked.

The ring box was a permanent blur in front of her eyes. She snapped it shut but didn't put it away. They needed to have this conversation, tonight, and she would need to get a grip and swallow her tears because she didn't need his compassion. If he couldn't give his love, she didn't need any other feelings. Friendship, yes, in a few years. But sympathy, tonight? It would kill her.

Time passed. Her butt ached from being in the same position for so long, but she managed to control her tears. Later, when she was alone, when nobody could see, she'd cry in the shower. Nobody would know how much she hurt. Swallowing and feeling the burn in her throat, she walked upstairs and packed her backpack. She had no intention to leave before Edward arrived, but if things got ugly, she needed to be able to leave with her stuff. She didn't pack much. Credit cards, underwear, hygiene products, swimsuit, laptop; he could throw away the rest.

When he hadn't arrived by eleven o'clock, Isabella started to worry. What if something had happened? But, terrified that he might've been with the woman he did love, she wasn't eager to call. In any case, she found a message from him sent at 7:54 PM.

 _Don't wait up for me tonight. 3_

She stared at the alien heart at the end of his message. He'd never used emoticons in his messages. At first, it had felt odd. She was so used to using them, she felt like he was upset all the time (he was not). But the fact that he chose tonight of all nights to start? His guilt shined through, and she could only hope that it was because of the ring he'd bought and not because of his present company.

Half of the white taper candle had burned out, and Isabella sat in the dim light, trying not to think or feel or analyze anything. Her arms were wrapped around her knees. The refrigerator hummed in the corner, and a neighbor had chosen this time on a Friday night to vacuum. The sounds were light-years away from her thoughts.

Finally, at twenty minutes past midnight, the front door closed. A laptop bag thumped against the floor, and footsteps followed. Isabella could see a hint of a silhouette in the corridor. When she stood up and turned on the lights, Edward grimaced.

His hunched shoulders and the way he covered his eyes with his hand revealed signs of an impending migraine.

"You're awake," he said in a quiet, tired voice.

Even with all the hurt and betrayal running through her, she would never force him into an argument when he had a migraine. She switched off the lights and followed him upstairs. Edward leaned against the doorframe of their bedroom, eyes shut. Swallowing her pride and tears, Isabella helped him undress. She'd done it before. If she hadn't, he would've lain down in his clothes, and he loathed few things more than waking up sweating in a crinkled suit.

On any other day, this would've been a sexy situation. His breath blew against her forehead as she loosened his tie and pulled it over his head. His hand gripped her upper arm as she unbuttoned his shirt, and she enjoyed the heat of his skin under her fingertips when she slid it off. He locked both arms behind her neck as she unzipped his pants and let them fall on the floor. Resisting the urge to run her hands all over his semi-naked body, she brought him Advil and water. As always, he swallowed the pills without water, and pulled her in his arms when he lay down. He didn't seem to realize that she was wearing a skirt and a top when he started rubbing her back. She put a hesitant hand on his bare waist, desperate to hold him close to her but knowing that his actions were driven by gratitude, not affection. He didn't want her for this task. He might've even imagined Kate in her place.

Yet, her heart fluttered when he kissed her eyebrow and whispered, "Thank you."

She reached behind him to cover them with a blanket.

"Are you wearing contacts?"

"No."

Minutes later, he fell asleep. Gently, she ran her fingertips over his brow, memorizing the feel of him, knowing it might be the last time she'd feel his heart beat, slow and steady against her cheek. She shut her eyes. He wasn't a big cuddler. He didn't seem to mind when they were lying on the couch, but he tended to prefer space when he was asleep. Many mornings, she'd woken up on his side of the bed, clinging on to one body part or another, breathing against his skin and holding his hand.

How much more evidence did she need that they'd had a largely one-sided relationship? She had acted, he had reacted.

But tonight, he'd cocooned her against him and she relished his scruff, his strength, his arms wrapped so tightly around her it was easy to imagine feelings he didn't share. Withdrawing slightly to avoid making his chest wet, she let her tears fall on the mattress. Would she ever find anyone to hold her like this? To make her feel this precious?

She pressed a kiss against the corner of his lips and uncurled his arm from around her.

"Mmm…'re you going?"

"Be right back," she lied.

Humming, he squeezed her hand and let go of her. Isabella quietly changed into jeans and a hoodie, dug out her swimsuit, grabbed a towel, and left Edward a letter on the kitchen table.

 _Dear Edward,_

 _If you find this letter and I'm not here, don't panic—I haven't run away. I went to Eric's. He has a community pool in his building, and he lets me use it when I need to. I'll be back at around 7 or 8 or 9 AM. Please don't leave before that. I would like to speak with you._

 _I was there last night when Kate told you that she's ready to have children with you. I was trying not to jump to conclusions, but then I found your engagement ring to her. In the interest of full disclosure, I should apologize to you. I tried it on, but it didn't fit. Quite symbolic, don't you think? In any case, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have tried it on. I just… I just wanted to know what it would feel like, you know?_

 _It kills me to let you go, but if you've made up your mind, I can't see what else I could do._

 _I love you. I just wanted to say that one last time. I can't say it to your face because I'll start to cry and you'll start to console me and I'll hate myself for making you react like that. I'll spare you from that._

 _I wasn't holding my breath, waiting for you to say the words. It wouldn't have mattered if you'd never said the words so long as you felt them, for me. But you don't, do you? You made me feel like you did, and I didn't see. I was blinded by my own feelings and wishful thinking. It's like that song, you know? I want you to want me._

 _I don't regret meeting you. You've taught me so, so much. Your integrity, your honor, the way your friends and colleagues appreciate and respect you… I envy that. I'm angry at you, and I can't describe how betrayed I feel that you let our relationship develop as far as it did. I want to scream at you. But you'd probably feel guilty enough to let me, wouldn't you?_

 _Were you indulging me? When I let you know how I felt, did you feel responsible for me? Did you feel like being with me and implying feelings that you don't have, that that's what I needed to keep me afloat in this insanity and terror? You might've been right, too. Even if it was all make-believe, your presence helped me through more than I want to admit. So I'm mad at you, but at the same time… a part of me understands. You're a good man, and you wanted to help me._

 _I'm trying to be noble and good and kind, but I'm not. I'm jealous of Kate. She has this incredible man waiting to start a life with her, to have children with her… I think you'll understand that I need time to get over that. Maybe a year or two. Even then, it will hurt, but I'll find a way to make it better. It's not your fault that I fell in love with you. It's not your fault that you don't feel the same. I don't want to increase your guilt, but I think you should know. I thought you were it, for me. I wanted you for life. Children and arguments, grey hair and arthritis, I wanted it all with you. I guess I've been naive in many ways, but I'll learn._

 _I hope you feel better._

 _Speak to you soon._

 _Isabella_

She called herself a cab. One or two swallows chirped on trees, and cars buzzed in the distance as she sat on the stairs in front of his door. She watched the vapor of her breath in the cold, waiting. It was 2:45 AM.

Eric opened his door to her, wearing yellow boxers, hard-framed glasses, and an earring in his left ear. Holding out keys to the community pool in his building, he said,

"You're one weird chick, you know that?"

"I appreciate your opinion," she replied dryly, turning to leave. Her stomach growled, and she paused. "Uh, you wouldn't happen to have an extra sandwich, would you?"

"Does ketchup count as food?"

Feeling his eyes on her, she gulped down two granola bars in the hallway. Three screens lit up the living room, code all over them, and she read his Python but didn't show any surprise at what he was doing. She'd known him for too long.

When she turned to leave, Eric gripped her wrist, pushing back his glasses.

"Whatever happened, you know you can trust me."

"I know, Eric. Give me time."

For three hours, she swam, switching between techniques, desperate to tire herself enough to switch off her brain. Two strangers joined her at seven, and Eric, too, jumped in the water next to her, swimming laps and asking nothing. Half an hour later, he pulled himself on top of the edge of the pool, and she sat beside him, wrapping herself in a towel. Her lips were bluish.

"Jesus, you're like a machine," Eric said, pulling his feet from the water.

"I'd like that." Her smile was weak. "Machines don't have feelings. They can't feel pain."

She rested her cheek on her knees and locked eyes with Eric. He had a buzz cut and long, hairy legs, but not a hair on his chest. His eyebrows broke the symmetry of the rest of his face, but he had a disarming smile.

"I need to ask you a favor. It's of the hyper-insensitive variety."

"Do you need to hack into the vice president's email account? 'cause I'm totally up for that."

"I need to you kiss me in front of a camera."

Eric snorted a laugh. "You _what_? Did Edward screw up so royally you need the deepest form of revenge?"

"No, he… he wants to, uh. He wants to get back together with his ex."

"You're shitting me."

Her smile was sad, and there was no mistaking the redness in her eyes.

"Isabella, the guy nearly broke my bones when he shook hands with me, showing who's the man and shit. Then, he got all twitchy when I hugged you goodbye. That's not a man who's eager to get it on with his ex."

"Well, he bought an engagement ring for her."

"How do you know it's not for you?"

"Their names are carved on the inside."

Eric crossed his legs, staring at her in disbelief. "Well, shit."

"Yeah." She rubbed her pruney fingers.

"Okay. I admit, that doesn't look good for him. Do you want me and Phil to corner him in some alleyway? He'll come for a visit next week."

"I'll keep that in mind," she joked.

"So, how does kissing you in front of a camera help you? Is it revenge you want or what?"

"No, I… the photo needs to be taken by a journalist or someone with connections. Then, when it gets published, nobody will question Edward if he gets back together with Kate. I bet they'll cheer him on."

Eric shook his head. "Jesus, Isabella. Do you understand the shitstorm you would invite?"

"I do," she replied. "I'm counting on it. They'll tear me apart, they'll call me names and hate me and, the more they do, the less people will blame Edward for moving on."

"Christ, you have it bad."

She played with her toes, sighing. "I know it's unfair of me to ask you to do this, but there's nobody else I trust."

"Breathe, Isabella. That ship sailed when I heard you sing in the shower."

She nudged his arm.

Eric gasped dramatically. "Oh, tell me you didn't sing in the shower around him. Maybe that's why he changed his mind!"

Isabella ripped off Eric's towel and pushed him in the water, smiling and shaking her head. When he came up to breathe, grinning, Isabella took a step back to avoid the same fate. Her face sobered.

"Would you mind if I slept on your couch for a few nights?"

It was 8:48 when she unlocked Edward's front door. She took off her jacket, pushed off her shoes and wondered, for the umpteenth time, how to avoid crying when she confronted him. Her exhaustion might ensure that she cried for no reason at all.

When she turned the corner, Edward was leaning against the wall, one hand in his messy hair, the other holding her letter. He wore glasses. They locked eyes, and damn it, seeing his eyes shimmer made her throat burn.

"I have a solution to our problem," she said, brushing past him, remembering that her casserole was still in the cold oven. "Eric agreed to kiss me in front of a camera, and once that photo gets out into the media, people will rip me apart. Nobody will blame you when you move on almost immediately."

Looking up from the letter, trying to comprehend her words, Edward blinked at her. He must've found her letter not even a minute ago. He pressed his lips together, folding the paper neatly together, placing it on the table, and drew lines on his palm. Isabella gulped back tears. She'd known he'd feel guilty for leading her on, but she couldn't handle his reaction, his shock and silence, and suddenly, she stepped in front of him and took his palm so that he could no longer stare at it.

"It's okay, Edward," she whispered. "It's okay. You want to have a life with her, and, I'm not going to stand in your way. I—I will be fine, after a while. But I can't be with you, knowing you want someone else to fill my shoes. You don't love me, and I'll learn to live with that."

Edward drew a sharp, loud inhale, and crushed her in his arms. Isabella, in tears, attempted to push him away. "Please don't. It's okay. You don't have to—it's okay. Please let me go."

"No." He shifted, pushing her toward the counter and grabbing the receipt on his way. He hid his face in her hair, squeezing her, feeling her heartbeat and smelling the chlorine in her hair. "Christ, Isabella. I just woke up from a migraine to this goddamn letter, give me a moment to get my thoughts together."

"We can talk with three feet of space between us," she whispered, overwhelmed by his proximity.

"Clearly, a fraction of an inch between us only leads to gut-wrenching misunderstandings." He took a slow, deep breath, holding her neck when he pulled back enough show her the receipt. "Read."

"Edward, can you—"

"Read, goddamn it. You're ripping my heart out."

Isabella read the receipt, "Samuelson's Diamonds. Ring repair, $109. Restoration and polishing, $39. Navy blue ring box, $75. Total amount…"

When her wide, sad eyes met his, Edward crushed the receipt, lifted her on top of the counter and held her neck in his hands, hovering over her face. His glasses were tilted and his breath smelled of toothpaste. His eyes shimmered with tears.

"Of course the ring is for you, you goddamn idiot."

She blinked. "It says Edward and Catherine."

Edward touched her nose with his, running his fingers through her hair, appreciating every hair and birthmark, every curve and the slightest trembling of her lips.

"My _great-grandfather_ , Edward. My _great-grandmother_ , Catherine. In a universe in which I would pick my ex girlfriend over my wife, why in the world would I allow the ring to say Edward and not Anthony? You know you're the only girl allowed to call me that."

She gaped, running her fingers over his scruffy cheek.

"Also, love, Kate is not short for Catherine. It's Caitlyn. You can google her if you wish, and every response will show you. Junior Partner Caitlyn Caldwell, Ford & Jenkins."

"But she—she offered to have your children. She was holding your tie."

"And then I stepped back and told her to go fuck herself," he finished, with a hint of a smile in his eyes. "Much more politely, of course, but my point remains." He brushed back hair from her temples, rubbing his cheek against hers, relishing her in his arms. "I'm not going back to her, okay? The matter of children was not the only disagreement we had. She tends to be vindictive toward the people she disapproves of, and she wanted to turn me into this social butterfly and make me quit my job as a marshal. You already know that she wanted to get married, and I wanted to have children. I wasn't willing to negotiate the first without Kate willing to negotiate the second, and she never was. She only did this, yesterday, because she saw that I was taken. She has many good qualities, I'm sure, but there are two things she loves most. She loves what she can't have, and she loves to beat around the bush about it."

Isabella stared at Edward in a sense of wonder, running her hands through his hair, searching his eyes.

"You're not going back to her?"

"Baby," he whispered. "Why? Even if I'd never met you, the answer would be negative. We broke up once, three years into our relationship, and got back together again. When that happens, you learn that the things that drove you apart, they never really go away. If you're not willing to work on those issues, you have to walk away."

"My husband, the Gandhi."

"Are you telling me I'm old?"

"I'm telling you you're wise and perfect," she replied, smiling against his cheek, feeling like an anvil had been lifted from her chest. Her tears hadn't left, but the reason behind them had changed.

"I thought… I thought, I was always the one initiating things with you, and I realized how clingy it must've been of me, asking you to be my one and only."

Edward locked eyes with her. "I'm just slow on the uptake. It took me a while to catch up with you, but now that I have, I'm right here with you. And if staying with me for life is your idea of clinginess, I hope you stay that way. My heart can't take it if you find someone else."

She hummed, her heart bursting with affection. "You want to have children."

"I do," he replied, holding her gaze. "Have you changed your mind about that?"

"No. I'd love to have kids with you, one day. But—not today or tomorrow. Is that okay with you?"

The smile lit up his face. It felt like a secret, happy smile, filled with relief and hope for the future. "You want to have children with me," he teased, but his joy was unmistakable. "That's all I heard."

"But, when do you want them?"

"One day, when we cuddle on the couch and decide that we're ready. So, let's say, _one day_ will be the scheduled date for our baby's conception."

"It's a good date," she agreed, amused and delighted by the fact that in her mind, the decision took place cuddling on the couch, too. Their future held a lot of cuddling on the couch, apparently.

"Of course. I am, after all, wise and perfect."

Isabella nudged his shoulder, and he grinned, wrapping arms around her and lifting her up. Snatching the ring box from the kitchen table, he walked to the couch, shifted her to make her sit sideways, and rested his chin on top of her shoulder.

"I guess the element of surprise is gone and all romance has been sucked out of the morning, but I'll do my best."

"Hey," she said, kissing his cheek. "It's been very romantic. You want to be married to me _and_ you want to have my children. What's more romantic than that?"

"Fair point," he said, running a nervous hand through his hair before he placed the ring box in her palm. "I guess you've already seen it, so…" He opened the box and took out the ring. It glistened in the morning sun. "My great-grandfather was born in 1903 in Scotland. His name, as you know, was Edward. My family's been boring like that. He worked as a gardener and part-time radio manufacturer, when he needed money to buy this ring for my great-grandmother, who was 9 years younger than him. Sound familiar?"

Isabella kissed his neck and smiled.

"They met when he fell off a ladder, and she was helping her aunt, who was a nurse in the local hospital. Her parents had little money and had set her up with this rich, pompous fellow. She wanted nothing to hear about him and kept stealing newspapers in the hospital. The first time Edward saw Catherine, she was hiding under a bed, reading, and covered her mouth with a finger when a nurse entered. He was smitten. But because her parents were determined to marry her to a rich guy, he set out to have as many part-time jobs as he could to pretend that he had money, and after a year of convincing her parents and fighting with her intended, he presented her with this ring. It was January, 1927, in Glasgow. They got married on June 29, the same year, under the total eclipse of the sun. He claimed he'd planned it that way, and Catherine always disagreed. In any case, they shipped off to America in 1938, and celebrated their diamond anniversary in 2002. I wish you'd met them."

Isabella rubbed his neck.

"Now, I can't promise you a diamond anniversary because I'd have to be…"

"109 years old," she said, not caring about the tears in her eyes.

"Yes. But I think we might be able to stretch it to a 65th anniversary. Arthritis and arguments, isn't that what you said?"

"Edward…"

Isabella buried her nose in his neck, getting his collar wet in the process, and kissed his skin. He withdrew to see her, wiping hair away from her face, drinking in her shimmering eyes and wet cheeks. He kissed her, open-mouthed, nipping her lips and brushing his tongue against hers. Smiling against the corner of her lips, he whispered, "I want all of that with you. Do you want that, with me?"

Taking his face in her hands, she grinned. "Yes."

Giving her the most boyish grin she'd seen, he put the ring in her pinkie finger. Edward's great-grandfather had phenomenal taste, however he'd managed to get his hands on a breath-taking ring like that.

Seeing her expression, Edward chuckled. "It's not the Cinderella story, baby. We'll get it sized."

He laughed when her stomach growled.

"I guess living in a pool the way you do, we should get you fed, huh?"

They reheated the casserole she'd made, and she pretended to be offended when he added spices to make it tasty. She sat in his lap, her legs on another chair, and they fed each other. When they'd finished the entire casserole, Edward locked his arms around her and didn't let her do the dishes. He took her jaw in his palms to make her look at him.

"Now, what was that nonsense about me not loving you?"

She lowered her eyes, blushing. "You don't have to say it just to appease me. I believe you now, without words."

" _Appease_ you," he repeated, aghast. "Isabella, I've told you."

"You've never."

"A second after you told me you loved me, I told you."

"The connection was broken. I heard nothing."

"Why didn't you ask?" Edward replied, gliding his fingers along the length of her spine, pressing her chest against his. He slid his hand under her shirt. Her skin tingled, and she gasped when he brushed his lips against her neck. Sinking into him, Isabella rubbed his waist under his shirt until he removed it. He groaned when she twisted her fingers in his chest hair, and she smiled sheepishly before kissing his skin. He felt amazing, warm and hairy and decidedly masculine against her. Questioning her with his eyes, he tugged at her T-shirt, and she lifted her arms and grinned when he threw it on the floor. Edward slid his nose along her skin, from one breast to another, and sucked the skin on her neck.

"Do you feel what we have?" he whispered, trailing his lips along her collarbone before his scruff tickled her face. Holding his flat palm against the center of her back, he clung to her, sucking her skin and pausing to take a breath. He came up for air, awed by her dazed eyes and open mouth. Licking his own, he let the tip of his nose brush against hers.

"I _love_ you," he whispered. Slowly and maddeningly, he let his wet lips hover over her cheek without moving, and she could've burst into flames in his arms. "I'm in _love_ with you. Do you understand? I would take a _bullet_ for you."

"Please don't."

"I will if I must."

She arched into him when his fingers trailed under her jeans. Still hovering over her cheek with his scruffy face and maddening lips, he smiled, lifting his leg under her to cocoon her in his arms. Happy to fold her body into a V, and hiding his face between her knees and face, he whispered, "Now, do you believe that I love you or should I show you?"


	23. Outtake 2: Sunday Morning

**A/N:** You crazy, wonderful people voted _Emma Matthews_ as #1 in the Top 10 fics completed in September (at twifanfictionrecs dot com). I'm overwhelmed by your response to my story. Thank you.

Here, have some diabetes-inducing fluff.

...

 **Emma Matthews**  
by Anton M.

 **Outtake #2  
Chapter 22: Sunday Morning**

...

Dull thumping echoed in the distance. Confused and sleepy, Isabella listened to the rhythm as she stretched but didn't come out from under the comfy blanket. Dark, grey clouds rolled in the sky, and it was almost 6 o'clock.

A minute after the thumping stopped, Edward opened the door to their bedroom and started throwing off his clothes. He sat on the edge of the bed. Quietly, he rubbed one of his forearms, unaware that Isabella had woken up and was now observing sweat trickle down his spine. Edward had a pale, wide-shouldered back covered by freckles and a white, bumpy scar under his right shoulder blade. The burn scarring of his arm stopped, like a slice, on top of his shoulder—kevlar must've prevented further injury. His physique, although leaner now after being in the hospital for nearly a month, was not unlike that of swimmers, but what made him most handsome to Isabella was the fact that he was _hers_ , his taut muscles, scars, warmth. Maybe she would still pinch herself, forty years from now, for having gotten so lucky.

Silently, Isabella emptied the pocket of her jeans before crawling behind her husband and wrapping arms around his sweaty waist. Edward startled. Humming, Isabella tucked a piece of paper in his boxer-briefs.

"Careful there," he said, raising his eyebrows as he removed a five-dollar bill from his underwear.

"For the striptease," she explained, pressing a kiss on his back and tasting the salt.

She didn't loosen her grip when Edward turned her sideways.

"Aren't stripteases from your husband supposed to be for free?"

"Ah." She grinned back at him. "My bad. In that case—" She reached for her money, but Edward held it away from her reach.

"Where's my morning kiss?"

Isabella gaped. " _Morning_?"

"You slept 17 hours in a row. It's almost six AM on Sunday."

"You're kidding."

He curled his fingers around her waist, pulling her in his lap and brushing his lips against the top of her hair. The small gesture affected her to a ridiculous degree.

"I'm sorry." She drew her nose back and forth on his chest before kissing his skin and resting her chin on his sternum to look up at him. "When did I fall asleep?"

Edward brushed back her hair. "Given how much you swam and how little you slept before yesterday noon, it's a miracle that you managed to stay awake through our arguments."

Isabella slid her fingers over the stubbly skin of his jaw before leaning in for a kiss. Stifling a smile, Edward squeezed her hips and opened his mouth. She felt incredible, soft and warm and precious. Sweat seeped into her top.

"You're sweaty."

He hummed, dipping his palms under her shirt and breathing against her mouth. "You don't seem to mind."

"I don't." Isabella bit his lip before she nuzzled his cheek. "You smell really nice."

He groaned when she shifted in his lap.

"You smell better," he replied. "Do you know what that means?"

"We can make out when we're sweaty?"

"No. It means we're biologically compatible."

Snickering, Isabella nudged his chest to see his face. "Are you making up pseudo-statistics again to get me in bed with you?"

"You _are_ in bed with me," he said, continuing to trail kisses along her neck. "You can google it."

Her fingers clutched onto his biceps when she arched against him. "Maybe… maybe I will."

Edward rested his wet forehead against the crook of her neck when her stomach growled. He drew a breath, gathering himself, and spoke against her skin.

"Can you wait five minutes until I shower?"

"And then what happens? More free striptease?"

He grinned against her cheek before wrapping her in his blanket and pressing a kiss on her nose. Winking, he threw his boxer-briefs at her and disappeared in the bathroom. Isabella felt powerful and vulnerable, smiling against her blanket. Twenty four hours ago, she'd been ready to take on the world, alone, but today she had Edward, his present and his future. She wanted nothing more than to spend a lazy Sunday cuddling on the couch with her husband.

She jerked awake when weight pressed against her hips and warm droplets of water started running down her face.

"Seriously?" Edward, freshly shaven and smelling of soap, hovered over her body, smiling. "17 hours of sleep and you still didn't get enough?"

Isabella embraced Edward. Half-naked and steaming, he grunted from surprise and fell on top of her. Heat warmed her fingertips when she squeezed his bare back and nuzzled the back of his neck, inhaling his soapy scent. She tightened her grip when short, damp hair tickled her cheek.

"Baby?"

A mess of crinkled blankets and his loosening bathrobe separated them. Edward rolled over without pulling away, sliding his palms underneath her shirt as he always did. He stroked her skin.

"Baby? Are you all right?"

Isabella withdrew enough to see his eyes. Running her fingers through his hair, she drank in the sight of this man, warm and damp from shower, wet hair clinging to his skin and large palms holding her tight.

"I love you," she whispered.

Edward's eyes, even without a smile, lit up in his own secret way, and she'd learned to recognize his little tells. He held his cheek against hers for a silent moment. His breath, smelling of toothpaste, tickled her ear, and his fingers drew patterns under her shirt.

"I love you, too."

The words were a silent exhale, not even a whisper, but she felt her heart swell with affection. Edward's fingers skimmed her jawline before he slid his thumb over her lips. "We don't say that much in my family, so even if I don't say it after every phone call or at the end of every text message, that doesn't mean I don't feel it." He brushed hair away from her face. His eyes were tender and filled with emotion, and she needed no further proof of his love than to look at him.

Isabella smiled against his lips before nodding.

"Don't move." Edward untangled himself from around her and jogged downstairs. Confused, Isabella slid her feet on the cold floor and listened to his footsteps. Edward narrowed his eyes when he stopped at the doorway with a tray.

"Didn't I tell you not to move?"

"I was confused!"

"Get back under the blankets."

"Can I go and pee at least?"

" _May_ ," he corrected after she'd closed the bathroom door. "It's _may_."

"I heard that!"

When she returned, Edward was sitting against the pillows, legs bent, patting the sheets in front of him. Isabella sat on her legs, facing him, but Edward circled his finger to motion for her to turn around. Laughing, she did so. He covered them with a blanket, and scooted her so that she sat with her back flush against his chest. He put a tray in her lap.

"Pancakes," she said, tilting her head on the side. "You made me _pancakes_."

"With wheat flour and butter and maple syrup. I have my phone ready in case you have a heart attack."

"But, you hate breakfast in bed."

"I do."

"And you hate white flour and butter and maple syrup."

"I do."

"Why, then?"

Surrounding her with both arms, Edward squeezed her stomach and pressed his jaw against her neck. "Do you really have to ask?"

Her stomach fluttered. "You didn't have to do this. I don't mind eating the healthy stuff you like."

"Okay," he said, faux-serious as he lifted the tray. "If you don't like this…"

"No! Don't you dare. You made me unhealthy breakfast and I intend to enjoy every bite of it."

"And what's the magic word, Mrs. Masen?"

Isabella, smiling, pressed a kiss on his Adam's apple. "Please?"

He lowered the tray and slid his arms back around her as she poured herself a glass of juice and dug in. Waiting, Edward hummed against her skin and peppered small kisses against her shoulder as she ate.

"Should I want to hug Eric or to kill him?"

"Hug," she replied. "Definitely hug."

"The guy is the first person in the world you run to when things turn south."

"Yes, and you would do well to get along with him."

"Not many people have that kind of relationship with their ex."

"Jealous?"

"Maybe."

She stifled a smile. "Eric didn't believe me when I told him that you wanted to get back together with Kate. He said that a man who behaves as you do around his girl doesn't seem to be eager to get it on with his ex."

Edward rubbed her stomach. "Smart man."

She turned her head to see his face. "He's a good guy. I know it's a bit awkward that we're friends after being together, but if anything ever happens to me, he's the guy you want."

"I'll keep that in mind," he said, pausing. "Do you still feel anything for him?"

"Other than friendship? No. We were together for such a short time and it was comfortable. There was never a spark."

"A spark?"

She tilted her head. "You know what I mean."

"Then I agree. He might need a hug."

Isabella chuckled and kept eating as Edward trailed kisses along her neck.

"Your backpack nearly killed me."

Isabella scoffed in surprise. "What?"

"For months, seeing our packed bags on the doorway meant another hotel in an uncertain future, but seeing your backpack alone on our bedroom doorway after waking up from migraine-induced sleep? Please, never do that to me again."

Isabella held the tray as she turned in his arms and lifted both of her legs over his thigh. He had a wistful, hurt expression on his face, and she couldn't help but try to kiss it away.

"I was hurt. I wanted to be able to leave with one bag, in case our arguments got ugly."

Edward ran his fingers through her hair and held her gaze. "You really thought I wanted Kate over you."

"Not until I saw the ring."

He cupped her jaw with both hands, searching her eyes. "Please tell me you didn't think I was cheating on you."

"I knew you wouldn't." Isabella set the tray on the bedside table before turning her full attention on him. "But, on some level, keeping your desire to be with her from me made sense. Given my family history… if you _did_ want to be with someone else, do you think I would commit suicide?"

"Jesus Christ, _baby_."

"It's a yes or no question. You know where I come from. Do you think I'd do that, once I found out you weren't serious about me?"

"No."

"How do you know?"

"Because you're stronger than that. But we'll never find out because I'm not going anywhere, do you understand? I'm _with_ you."

Isabella rested her cheek against his chest. "I know."

"Tell me you've never thought about it."

"Of course I've thought about it."

"You _what_?" Edward jerked back, pale-faced and eyes wide. "Are you _serious_?"

"Not like that." Isabella squeezed his upper arm, leaning to catch his gaze and calm him down. She brushed her fingers against his cheek, drawing his attention. "Not like that. I've thought about the concept of it, how it affects everyone and what pushes people to make that choice. It would've been impossible not to, given how much I've been surrounded by people who take their own lives. But I haven't thought of it as a choice for myself."

Edward lifted her to straddle him and wrapped her up in his arms. He hid his jaw in the crook of her neck and stretched the soft T-shirt she wore as he squeezed her. "Will you promise to tell me if you feel close to making that decision?"

"Edward…"

"Please. I would not survive it if you thought death was better than spending a life with me."

"I will never make that choice. I'm not my mother."

"Promise."

She pressed her lips against his skin, whispering, "I promise."

"Thank you." Edward hummed, not letting go.

"But I'm not my mother. I don't have her temperament or her upbringing, and I don't hide from my problems. Even yesterday, even when I was sure you didn't want a life with me, even when I went to Eric's to swim and think, the fact that you woke up to my backpack and letter meant that I wanted to discuss our problems with you. I came back. I came back convinced that you'd admit you didn't want me, but I did, Edward. Tell me you see that. Both my parents voluntarily left me, and it cuts you wide open to see the person you love make that decision. I wouldn't wish that pain on anyone."

Edward's heart beat wildly against her ear.

"Thank you for not running away. I would've chased you down, but I'm glad I didn't have to."

Edward pulled a blanket to cover her and rubbed her back with his fingertips. Bathing in her warmth, he drew his wet lips over her neck, leaving goose bumps in his wake. Isabella smiled against his skin, curling her fingers in his chest hair and enjoying his proximity.

"So, can I continue with my deliciously unhealthy breakfast?"

"I don't know, _can_ you?"

"Fine. May I?"

"No."

"No?"

"I was so close to losing you, baby. Give me a moment."

Isabella, swooning at his comment, sighed and sank into his chest, nuzzling his chest hair as she realized that Edward was still wearing nothing but a towel. Testing the waters, she shifted in his lap, and he groaned before squeezing her hips to hold her still. Isabella bit her lip before offering a teasing smile.

He narrowed his eyes. "You're evil."

She pecked his lips and continued with her breakfast without moving anywhere. When Isabella was finished, she wiped her buttery fingers against his neck.

Edward's eyes were glinting. "You're gross."

"Oh, yeah?"

"Very unladylike."

"Is there a punishment for such behavior?"

"Most certainly."

Her blanket fell on the floor when he flipped her on her back and sucked the skin below her ear. Isabella, squeezing his bicep, gasped for air.

Edward pressed his open mouth against hers, biting her lips and tasting the sweetness. Tugging at her shirt, he said, "I require one clothing item for each breach of ladylike manners."

Her eyes were full of humor when she removed her shirt and pulled Edward on top of her. His elbows locked her head against the mattress as he sat gently on her hips and hovered over her, hair falling on his forehead. Droplets of water fell on her face. Time stalled. He wiped a tendril off her face, watching her, waiting. She touched birthmarks on his neck, and when she cupped his neck, Edward leaned against her touch, wordless in his admiration. Meeting Isabella had lead to the only time in his life he'd let his personal and professional lives blend into one another. He had fought his attraction. He'd restrained himself physically and emotionally in the hopes of keeping them alive for longer, knowing that blackmail was far too complicated to respond to if (visible) feelings were involved. But even when he didn't allow himself to admit his feelings or to show them, they had been on the sidelines for longer than he'd let on.

Her actions in Wisconsin had punched him in the gut, and it hurt more because, with Isabella, it was always personal. From day one, little idiosyncrasies and passions connected them that had nothing to do with their fake identities. He fell for her, sharing thoughts watching the Travel Channel and History, discussing Agatha Christie, discovering snippets of her past and arguing about the complexity of moral injustice and law. He was in awe of the speed with which she learned how to deal with his migraines and, he hoped she understood the care he attempted to show in return.

In her letter, Isabella had said that she thought she'd been naive in many aspects of her life, but truthfully—that label applied to him. He'd trusted many people in his life without question, before her. She might've been ten years and three months younger than him, a fact he'd never let himself forget, but their relationship was defined by friendship and trust and suppressed desire so deep he didn't know if he'd ever come back for air once he could show her how much he wanted her. He'd restrained himself in many ways around her, a fact he hadn't emphasized much. He didn't shed his professionalism easily.

His eyes lingered on her mouth. Next thing he knew, cold air surrounded his lower body, and Isabella grinned when she threw his towel on the floor with her toes. Crushing his naked body against hers, Edward trailed hot kisses toward her mouth, tasting her skin and reveling in her sharp moan.

"That was _not_ ladylike."

She grinned, eyes twinkling and hands clutching his back when he removed her bra. He sucked and nipped skin closer to her nipple, and she arched when his lips wrapped around it. The vibrations of his hum sent shivers down her spine. Edward smiled. Slowly, he drew his nose back and forth between her breasts, stopping only when her chain of golden penguins rolled between them. As he paused to stare, Isabella reached under her neck to take it off, but Edward took her wrist. Their eyes locked.

"Don't."

He moved upwards to press his open mouth against hers. His movements were slow but firm, biting her lips, sliding his palm along her waist, pressing himself against her. She moaned and arched, putty in his hands, and he smiled against her skin. His fingers had barely slid underneath her panties when she gripped his cock, and suddenly, Edward's full weight pressed down against her as he fell.

He groaned against her neck. "Give a man some warning, baby."

Isabella, lightheaded with desire, stroked his back before she cupped the back of his neck.

"Unladylike enough to lose my underwear?" she whispered, brushing her lips against the short hairs on the side of his head, feeling goose bumps on her neck from the warmth of his breath. She breathed him in. Edward lifted up his torso and stared at her with daunting intensity. Observing her bright eyes and teasing smile, feeling the intimacy of her skin pressed against his, he felt humbled in the knowledge of how easily she could've disappeared from his life.

He surrounded her neck with his arms, rolling over. His cheek squished against her temple, and his lips hovered inches from her ear.

"You're like a butterfly when you get to sleep and swim to your heart's content. You're _perfect_."

"We both know that's not true." Feeling the affection behind his earnest words, Isabella kissed the arch of his cheek. "I am way stronger than a butterfly. At least a hummingbird."

He laughed. He was painfully aware of her curves pressed against him, and he couldn't believe how long he'd fought his desire. Once they broke this dam, they might have to skip work and school to make up for lost time.

"Do you have _any_ idea what it's like to wake up with a raging hard-on four months in a row?"

She narrowed her eyes. "You're lying."

Raising his eyebrows at her, he said nothing.

"No." She squeezed his neck. "I don't believe you. I've never seen a guy so unaffected by a woman before."

Edward let out a snort-like grunt, suppressing his smile.

"Baby, during and after we lived in the cabin, you used to wrap yourself around me in the mornings, and I spent hours attempting to calm myself down."

Isabella nudged his shoulder. "You did not! I never saw that. You were always incredibly professional around me."

"I'm glad you think so. That was the impression I was aiming for."

Forced to admit that his words must've held some truth in them, she held his gaze, frowning. "But… I told you to push me away."

"I discovered that I didn't want to."

Edward brushed hair away from her face and cupped the side of her head. "Remember the time I mauled you in a bookstore, a day before we got keys to the cabin?"

"You did not _maul_ me."

"I just pressed you against a bookshelf and had my wicked way with you?"

Her face grew hot as her eyes lingered on his lips. Memories of his passion gave her goosebumps. "That guy you knew to be connected to Carlisle was in the store. It's not like you had a choice."

Edward bit his lip before he smiled, eyes aglow. "There was nobody there."

"What?"

"I didn't recognize anyone. I just couldn't take it anymore, seeing you so lovely, holding my hand, eager to get your books. A guy walked past whose eye you caught and I just thought I'd go mad if I didn't do anything. So I—" Edward pursed his lips, half-smiling and looking as if he was admitting to a fraud. "I pressed you against that shelf and whispered some code word nonsense before I… you know. I might've been extra professional with you in the cabin the next day because I felt so guilty."

Isabella, taking in this information, stared at his mouth while drawing absent-minded little circles against his neck. Her eyes revealed vulnerability that her voice did not. "You wanted me, then?"

" _Did I_." Edward rocked against her and brushed a kiss on the corner of her lips. She gasped. He pressed his mouth against hers, stroking her waist to pull her closer. Wet, cool lips skimmed her cheek before he slid his thumb over her pulse point, speaking in her ear. "I never crossed the line between personal and professional life until you. I tried to hide it, but from the moment you asked me to hold your hand that first night, you became my exception."

Isabella, overwhelmed with affection, took hold of his neck and kissed him. Edward returned her passion, thrusting against her as he slid his palm beneath her underwear to slide it off. Lifting her hips, she complied. His muscles flexed under her palm. She savored his firm, hairy body brushing against her chest. Trails of wet kisses left goose bumps on her neck, but her hand trailed lower. Suppressing a smile, she pushed him on his back and curled her fingers around his cock. Intense, ardent eyes followed her palm, and she coaxed a guttural groan from him when she massaged his lower stomach while opening her mouth to bring him pleasure.

"Baby…"

He jerked against her, torn between throwing his head back to enjoy the experience and staring at a most erotic sight.

They'd explored each other often. The new and overwhelming honeymoon phase they'd entered offered many discoveries and playful foreplay. Hands and mouths were put to good use while Isabella waited for Edward's doctor to clear her husband for more rigorous activities. (Edward would've happily skipped any permissions from a third party.)

Isabella, enjoying the sight of his half-lidded eyes, quickened her strokes and tightened her grip before he groaned and came against her stomach. She lay on his side, splaying her palm against his chest, before Edward scooted lower and gazed at her with lazy eyes. He wiped her stomach with the corner of a blanket.

"Guess we're doing laundry today, huh?" Isabella teased.

He bit back a smile, kissing her shoulder. He slid his hand up and down her waist, squeezing and exploring, relishing each curve and dip. Anchoring himself against her, he pushed her on her back and hid his face in her neck. His hands kept stroking her skin while his mouth had a mind of its own.

"This okay?" he whispered before he started sucking her neck.

Isabella clutched the back of his neck. "Yes," she whispered, shutting her eyes and hissing a snicker when Edward's fingers slid between her legs. He created a rhythm before he tore his lips from her neck, pressed a kiss on her lips, and crawled lower. Goose bumps arose where Edward's lips left a trail. She arched. His touch, simple, light, and tender, made her feel loved. Warm lips traced lower before Edward paused. His fingertips ghosted over the side of her groin, and his eyes were filled with mirth.

"A green giraffe?"

Feeling embarrassed, Isabella scoffed and covered her face with her elbow, but Edward was having none of that. Grinning, he pulled away her arm and quirked an eyebrow. Inspecting the little creature, he pressed a small kiss on top of the tattoo. She twitched in his arms.

He hovered above her when another, smaller giraffe caught his eye.

"There's _two_."

The second giraffe got the same treatment of a tender, teasing kiss on top of it while Isabella avoided Edward's eyes.

"You wanted me to find these, didn't you." His breath blowing against her skin made her squirm, but he held her firmly against the bed.

Blushing, Isabella peeked out from under her fingers. "Childish?"

" _Playful,_ " he replied, sucking the fake tattoo until Isabella groaned and attempted to writhe away. Edward, having none of that, turned his attention on where she needed it the most. When she bit her lip, arching, getting lost in her pleasure, he couldn't take his eyes off her. Every whisper, gasp and twitch reminded him that she was his to love and pleasure, and no other man would make her feel like this. Her playfulness and intimacy were infinitely precious to him, and by god, he needed her.

Edward removed his lips and fingers from her just before she'd orgasmed, and she blinked at him, panting and confused. She felt exposed and vulnerable lying naked in front of him. Needy, so deliciously needy but a bit scared of his reaction, she frowned.

"Did I do something wrong?" she asked. "I'm sorry if I moved or, or made some weird noise, or—"

"Baby, _no_ ," he interrupted, pressing himself against her side and burying his face in her neck. "No." His palm, firm and wide, curled around her waist as he sucked the skin below her ear. "Never be afraid of how you move or sound when I'm making you feel good." Tangling his fingers in her hair, he lifted his head, and his lips brushed against her ear. "But I cannot watch you again, looking so delicious, without being a part of you."

Her eyes widened, and the way her fingers slowly ruffled his hair drove him wild.

"But your ribs, the doctor…"

"He said I'm good to go."

"Since when?"

"Thursday."

Isabella blinked once. She blinked twice. A millisecond, and she threw herself in his arms, nudging him to sit up and straddling his lap. Her palms covered his chest and neck, trailing upward, drinking in his intense gaze. They both groaned when his fingers dug into her hips to adjust her in his lap. Goose bumps arose all over her body when her breasts grazed his chest. He dipped his head to tug her lips between his, slow but fiery and bursting with need. She'd asked to be on top her first time, and when their eyes locked, she recognized the question in his silence. She could say no to this, and he wouldn't hold it against her. But it warmed her to see Edward not hide his desire any more. He stroked her skin, pulling her in a heated kiss, unashamed of his need. She'd never thought she'd deserve love like his.

She got a shot when she swam semi-professionally, and he was clean. There was no need to mention either.

Slowly, Isabella lowered herself, pushing him inside her. Her forehead dropped against the crook of his neck. Edward groaned. His grip on her waist tightened. Isabella felt more uncomfortable than she'd expected to feel, but she also felt an intense, personal connection, an ache that was marked by pleasure as well as discomfort.

"Baby?"

Edward's breath blew against her ear. One of his palms slid behind her, stroking her spine, but he didn't move despite shaking with need. Isabella, kissing his skin, cupped his neck, glancing down. The sight of them together felt wildly personal and incredibly erotic. Raising her eyes, she rocked against him, and his hands clutched her tight against him. His breathing was erratic, nose buried in her hair.

"Baby," he repeated, feeling a sheen of sweat start to cover his skin from holding back. He didn't trust himself not to urge her if he were to keep holding her so tight, so he shut his eyes and pulled her in a kiss to distract himself. He nipped her lower lip, nudging her face, feeling like the movement of her lips might set him on fire. She felt incredible, tight and hot and amazing, and he felt a powerful urge to squeeze her tight and bury himself in her, deeper and stronger. But she deserved to set her own pace their first time, so instead of giving in, Edward loosened his grip, relishing the sight of her beautiful, nude body against him, seeking and giving pleasure. Her palm curled in his chest hair when she dipped her face near his neck and kissed his ear. "I like it when you hold me tight."

Grunting, he dug his fingers in her skin. "I'll be too rough."

Rocking against him, she trailed wet kisses closer to his mouth and brushed her lips against his.

"I like you rough," she whispered.

Her words made him lose control. He lifted her before pulling her against him, and both groaned. Isabella reveled in the rhythm he set. He hid his face in her hair, breathing in her scent, fighting not to treat her too roughly but feeling himself slip. When he pushed her down, and they both twitched, Isabella arched against him and brushed her lips against his earlobe.

"No te detengas."

Edward didn't know that anything could turn him on as much as her little whisper did. Not knowing what it meant but aching with need, he rolled her on her back and buried his nose in her neck as he rocked against her with powerful thrusts. She clutched his shoulders, panting and tightening her thighs around him. Edward's fingers curled between her legs before she spasmed in his arms, arching and deaf to the world in her pleasure. Pushing against her with strong, slow strokes, he came, groaning her name. He buried his face in her neck and turned on his side, pulling her with him.

Her eyes were afire with love as she stroked the side of his face. Holding her gaze, Edward covered her hand with his and kissed her knuckles. He opened her palm, pressing a kiss in the middle, and wiped hair from her face when his nose touched hers. Incredulous and brimming with love, Edward relished the sight of her, glistening with sweat, eyes revealing her trust and love.

He reached over to cover them with a blanket and wrapped his arms around her.

"I can't explain how precious you are to me."

The words squeezed her heart, and she pressed a kiss against his shoulder. She'd never heard his voice so soft. His features were sharp and defined by age, his cheeks smooth from having shaved so recently and his eyes drinking in her expression. His open palm slid from her hip to waist and back again. His eyes filled with worry.

"Was I too rough with you?"

"No," she replied, running her thumb over his eyebrow. "Not at all."

Still, he hesitated. "I'm sorry you didn't get to be on top like we agreed. I kind of… lost myself for a moment there."

"You were perfect." She smiled. "But you could've told me you don't like your women on top."

"Hey," he argued, amused. "I have _nothing_ against you on top. It was just, it had been a while, and it was— intense."

Isabella kissed his wrist, smiling. "I'm just teasing you."

He drew patterns on her arm with his finger, over her bicep and down again. Isabella watched his finger, a bit self-conscious of his attention. She was fit. She wasn't a delicate flower and she had evidence that Edward desired her, but she was curious, too.

"Edward?"

"Mmm?"

"Do you mind that I'm like this?"

He frowned. "Like what?"

"You know." She put his palm on her bicep. "Kind of muscled. Not too feminine. A bit wide-shouldered. You know, athletic."

Edward suppressed a smile and hid his face in her neck. "Do you doubt that I find you attractive?"

"No," she replied. "I'm just wondering. Kate is feminine and I just realized that I'm probably not the type you're used to."

"The type that can take it when I like it a bit rough?" He squeezed her.

"Have you had problems with that in the past?"

"Will you think less of me if I say yes?"

Isabella stifled a smile and trailed a few kisses on top of his hair. "No. But I've met guys who've had a problem dating a girl stronger than them."

"Are you implying that you're stronger than me?"

She let out a small laugh.

"You're talking like you're a 200 pound weightlifter. You're a swimmer. Lithe and strong. You're the fittest woman I've dated, but I find it hot that if I were to push you against the wall to have my way with you, you could probably take it."

"Making plans, are we."

He bit his lip, smiling, and kissed her ear. "Always."

The sky, although still cloudy, had lightened, and it was close to 9 AM. Sleepy and content, Edward stroked her side. Isabella hummed against his chest, enjoying their intimacy. Eventually, they got up and had a shower before going downstairs to make breakfast. Isabella, who had eaten a sandwich and some casserole within the 36 hours prior to this Sunday morning, started unwrapping bacon while Edward warmed up the pan. Small touches and secret smiles accompanied their cooking, and he pulled her between his legs and against his chest as they sat on the couch in the living room. Pressing his jaw against her neck and pulling a thin blanket over their legs, he hummed.

"A pile of mail arrived to you on Friday."

Isabella kissed his jaw and drew knees close to her chin. She opened court notices and bills when a white envelope caught her eye. The words 'mel udara, par avion' were written on a blue sticker. All three stamps, featuring a Bunga Raya, a dove, and a gibbon, had 'Malaysia' written under them.

Edward put down his fork when Isabella stilled in his arms.

"Baby? Are you okay?"

Isabella lifted the envelope, and Edward scanned the front of it before locking eyes with her.

"Jacob?"

"I think so."

"I'm guessing that wherever your brother is, Malaysia is not the place."

She ran her fingers over her full name, written in handwriting she couldn't recognize. "I'm pretty sure this paper, if this is from him, won't even have his fingerprints on it."

Heart beating wildly in her chest, she cut open the side of the envelope and dropped a single photograph in her palm. A nearly hairless little girl stared wide-eyed at the camera, wearing pink and holding her hands in fists in front of her chin. She was gorgeous, and Isabella felt a wave of longing for not being able to be there. Feminine fingers covered the newborn's chest as a woman who couldn't be seen on the photograph held her.

Edward kissed Isabella's neck and rested his chin on top of her shoulder. "She's beautiful."

"She is."

The back of the photograph read 'Areli, March 13.'

Isabella opened the envelope to make sure it was empty. It was. She observed the photograph, the eyes that were shaped just like Jacob's but couldn't make out their color. Yet Areli's general features gave Isabella the feeling of vague familiarity that she couldn't quite put her finger on. The wall behind the woman and her niece was a generic beige and the woman's sleeve white. When Isabella noticed that her pinkie finger bent away from the rest, she held the photograph tighter, sliding her finger over the woman's, and suddenly, the vague familiarity made perfect sense.

She nearly knocked over Edward's plate when she straddled his lap and hid her nose in his neck, shaking as she hugged Edward with violent force. Tears prickled her eyes, and she wiped them away, pressing her open mouth against Edward's skin.

"God," she whispered.

"Hey," he said, pushing his plate away before holding her against him. "It's okay. I know you must want to be there."

"No. I mean, yes, of course I do. But it's not that. It's _Rosalie_."

"It's what?"

"She hurt her pinkie in a bicycle accident when she was a teenager, and her nail never really grew back properly. This woman holding my niece is Rosalie. She's her mother. Jacob's girlfriend. She's _alive_."

She felt so overwhelmed she started crying, but she brushed away her tears.

Edward said nothing for a few seconds as he squeezed her. "Baby, Rosalie died."

"No," she argued, pulling back and cupping his cheek. She could feel herself shaking. "I know it must look like I'm crazy, but this makes perfect sense. When Jacob took out Pasquier, I thought he did it for me, but he never did. He did it for _Rosalie_. She must've told him."

Edward pondered on her theory. "But she's must've been three or four months pregnant when you left her in Baltimore."

"But she has the whole wide-hipped, voluptuous thing going on that would hide a pregnancy for longer," Isabella argued, feeling foolish, stupefied and more confident in her theory as they argued. "Jacob said he was sober for a while, before the whole dad fiasco, and… she never wore snug clothes."

Both looked at the picture in wonder, and now that Isabella knew about Rosalie, the hand on Areli's chest felt strategic and thought-out. Jacob must've wanted her to know without saying it and putting his family in danger. Edward, brushing his lips against her temple, observed her reaction, taking it all in.

"But how they ever got together or why neither told me…" Isabella looked up at Edward. "I don't know."

It could've been to keep her safe, to keep her reactions realistic, or to not overwhelm her with details when she had so much going on… it could've been anything. She had a plethora of questions that might not be answered for years, maybe even a decade.

"He might not be her biological father, you know. He could've just decided to be one."

"Oh, please." Isabella grinned, holding the picture next to her face. "Look at those eyes. Those are definitely Jacob's eyes because they're _my_ eyes."

Edward's eyes flickered between his wife and the picture, and Isabella had rarely seen the kind of tortured, tender expression that covered his face. Overwhelmed, he brushed his cheek close to hers and spoke against her ear.

"Baby, don't torture me. I don't want to pressure you."

Isabella felt like she might burst with love as she pressed little kisses in front of his ear. "I'm sorry."

"Don't be." He held her tight.

"One day." She reveled in his strength, warmth and scent, and neither let go. "Would it be okay if I put it on the fridge?"

"Absolutely," he replied. "Just don't be too surprised if I start to buy subtle little slippers and pink hats for our future daughter."

Isabella laughed, stroking his neck and tugging his lip as she kissed him. Opening his mouth, he gripped her waist, and she hooked her legs behind him before he pressed her against the couch. His hand slid underneath her T-shirt and she arched against him. Edward cupped the side of her head, staring at her lips, and she felt lightweight. Jacob was clean. Rosalie was alive. Their little daughter seemed healthy, and they were together and safe, somewhere far, far away.

Everything would be okay.

She brushed hair away from his forehead, more to have a reason to touch him than anything else, and bit back a smile.

"I love you."

She'd always cherish how gentle and affectionate his eyes got when she said the words. Edward leaned closer, pressing his lips against her nose. "I love you, too," he replied, covering her face with kisses, looking tender and hungry and delicious. "And I think there will be a lot of practice involved before we can be trusted to make a baby."

"Oh, yeah?"

She laughed when he started to tickle her, and his lips brushed against her ear. " _Definitely_."

 _THE END_

* * *

 **A/N:** Thank you all. It would be wonderful to pass you by on the street and know that I've touched your life, even a little. Thank you for reading. I hope you enjoyed this little snippet, and that we'll see each other soon.


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